Twisted Life
by thesolitary-dragon
Summary: Twister falls in with the wrong crowd, and slowly his life crumbles around him. When things become desperate the Rodriguezes turn to an old friend in a last hope to save their son.
1. No One

A/N: Alright...um...I won't be updating this for a long time (until I either finish writing it up, or I finish my SoR fic and everybody who reviews desperately wants me to update). I'm posting this because of several reasons. I haven't posted anything in about two months and I don't want my readers thinking I'm dead, and because I want to see how people react to this one are the main reasons. Um...

Summary: Twister falls into the wrong crowd and his life slowly shatters around him. In a last desperate attempt to save their son, the Rodriguezes turn to an old friend. Can he get his life back together, or is the Twister everyone knows and love gone for good? Dun, dun, dunnnnnnnn! I'm sorry, that's just such a crappy cliche summary. I don't know what else to say towards this, except READ! It's not that bad, I'm sure...

If this seems similar to any of the stories already written about drug abuse and all that shit, it's purely coincedental, as I've never read any of the other drug-abuse stories in this fandom...or in anyfandomfor that matter. Huh. Anyways, this is rated for language, sexuality, drug reference, and other such shit. I assure you, it's all within the creative boundaries of the story. In fact, the story would probably lack without them. But if you don't think you are mature enough to handle the material (or can't understand why it's necessary for him to say "fuck" instead of "fudge") than don't bother reading.

Oh, and a warning. This story is just overflowing with OCs (original characters). While I maintain that the Rocket Gang are the main dish of the plot, a few of the OC's play huge roles. Twister has a shit load of new friends, as do the other characters. If you are a dumbass and think that all fanfics should be OC-free, because you are unable to respect an author's creative expression and freedom to input their own characters (and don't seem to understand that if a fanfic only ever involved the RP gang it would be a small world indeed), then go to hell. Er...or don't read my story. I don't write Polly Sues, or Mary Janes, or whatever the hell their called. I don't know if I could, considering what they are defined as. I write people, alright. I pride myself in my ability to create characters. And no, this won't be like my other stories where you get to vehemently hate the OC's, because this story does not have OC's designed for that purpose. I actually hope that you eventually come to feel for my OC's...also I don't do self-insertion. None of these characters are based on me, I hate that kind of stuff actually, but they may be based on people I've known. I'm babbling now. If you, for some stupid reason that is your own, absolutely abhor stories with OC's in them, then don't read. You have been warned, and any flames regarding the matter will promptly be ignored. Or pointed and laughed at.

This story switches point of views too. To avoid confusion, Twister is always the person who tells from first person pov. And I tend to use fragments in first person. It's called a literary license, I don't want fifty people reviewing to tell me that my first sentence is a fragment. I've taken rudimentary English classes, too. _I know_. I also know that most of the great classic novelists used fragments. Like for instance, J.D. Salinger in The Catcher in the Rye, and F. Scott Fitzgerald with The Great Gatsby. For all those readers who think they're little English teachers in the making, please don't write me a review correcting every grammatical mistake I may have accidentally made. I write blindly, alright. I usually don't think about those things when I'm writing. And then when I read back over, it's usually to make corrections to glaring grammatical errors and to add, change, or take out certain things, to tweak the story. Which, incidentally, is why a beta-reader is out, so as flattered as I would be, please don't make the offer. As gracious as I am by this, I probably won't make the changes, because I simply don't catch them. They don't ruin the story, so get over it. There is mild Spanish used in later chapters, it's just used to add to the character developement, so I don't want a bunch of reviews about how I didn't use the proper conjugation of such and such verb. I've taken Spanish classes and promptly forgot everything I was supposed to learn. I don't want another Spanish lesson. It's not that I don't care about and respect the language, it's that _I don't care_. Thanks in advance!

Um...and that's all folks. ENJOY!

* * *

Chapter 1: No One 

_Falling, I'm falling_

_Have you ever walked through a room,_

_But it was more like the room passed around you,_

_Like there was a leash around your neck,_

_That pulled you through?_

-Offspring, "Have You Ever"

There was something going off. Blaring, actually. Right in my ear. I moved slightly, felt the tingle of someone's hand brushing along my bare chest and sighed. Hair. Blonde hair, layered and splayed along my cheek. It smelled of smoke. She, the owner of that hand and smoke smelling hair, moved, pulling herself up, her hand leaving my flesh, leaving it cold. She was wearing a tank top, pink and white. The strap fell down her shoulder and she moved to push it back up. Her creamy white skin looked strange against my own deep set tan. Her eyes were raccoon-ed, black mascara and liner smeared. She stretched over me, turning the blaring noise off. It was an alarm clock.

"Why'd you set it so early?" she moaned. I turned slightly, looking bleary eyed at the time.

"My parents get home in an hour," I mumbled, turning on my belly, and closing my eyes. She sighed, pulling herself out of bed, and straightening her light blue Hanes-her-way panties. She scoured the floor for her clothes, finding an oversized pair of jeans and pulling them on.

"Where's my bra?" she asked, looking around and receiving no answer, "_Maurice_," she snapped, in a harsh whisper, "Help me find my damn bra." I shifted slightly, reaching under the covers and producing the black strapped leopard print lingerie. She snatched it, putting it on with her back turned to me even as I wasn't looking, having no reason to. I'd seen it all already.

"I'm taking one of your shirts," she said, pulling out a large light brown tee from the mess on my floor, not really caring if it was clean and tugging it over her head. She mumbled something about how it smelled like me, "If your brother's here, I don't want him looking at my chest again. He creeps me out."

"Whatever…"

"I'm serious, Maurice. You'd think the guy'd never seen a girl before. He should get porn or a prostitute or something, if he can't get his own girl," she muttered, attempting to straighten her hair, "I look like shit."

"Uh huh…"

"You're not supposed to agree with me," she scowled, looking in my mirror, "Can I use the bathroom?"

"No…you got to leave…" I muttered, burying my face in the crook of my arm strewn over my pillow, and attempting to open my eyes.

"But I have to wash my face," she argued, "My make-up is all fucked," I didn't reply, "Hey, Maurice, you still buzzing?"

"Yeah…"

"That was good shit last night," she said, grinning, and sitting on the bed, her hand resting on my leg, "Pure chronic. I told you Gordie wouldn't let us down."

"Yup…"

"Hey, Maurice, are you even listening to me?" she pouted, running a hand over my bare back. I shivered under her touch. She pressed a kiss to my middle back, another to my spine, trailing to my shoulder blade, to the back of my neck, another to my ear. I didn't respond. "You're no fun in the morning," she moaned, her hot breath intruding against my flesh. I rustled, all but pushing her away, and pulling the covers up over my head.

"I'm tired," I groaned, "Isn't your grandma going to flip when she finds out you were even over here?"

"She won't find out," she muttered, peevishly, "Not like she cares anyway."

"Well, my parents are going to flip. And I don't need that shit right now."

"Where are my shoes?" she asked.

"Where you left them."

She pulled herself up, finding one sneaker thrown to the closet wall, the other shoved under the bed. She slipped them on, and made her way to the door.

"You think it's cold outside?" she asked.

"Probably…"

"Can I take one of your sweaters?" she questioned, crossing her arms over her chest.

"No."

"I'm taking the Independent one," she told me, grabbing the hooded navy blue sweatshirt emblazoned with an iron cross from my closet and pulling it on.

"I said no."

"You gonna walk me to the door?" she demanded, running her fingers agitatedly through her short, knotted locks.

"Why? You know where it is."

"I fucked Steven last night," she informed me steadily.

"Hope you used a condom," I replied without skipping a beat.

"Gave him head…"

"Hope it was good for him," I shifted slightly, attempting to get comfortable.

"I'll see you at the school," she pressed.

"Later much."

"Asshole," she muttered, slipping out of the room and quietly shutting the door behind her. She almost ran into the older boy making his way down the hall. Lars gave her a reproving once over, sneering down at her.

"Bitch," he greeted tersely.

"Fuck face," she retorted.

"Why are you over here, Rebecca?" he said a little harsher, "I take it this means my little brother's home?"

"No, I left him messed up somewhere and decided to come over and steal all his clothes, his stash, and a few CDs," she sarcastically spat, then her voice softening, "He's passed out in bed. I showed him a real good time last night."

"Just get out of my house. My parents don't need to come home to find a slut leaving his room," Lars growled. She rolled her eyes, skipping down the stairs and giving him the finger over her shoulder. Lars looked to his younger brother's door, considering going in and yelling. Nothing to yell about came to mind. Late partying on a school night, underage drinking, getting stoned, oral sex; all briefly popped in his head. He continued down the hall to his own room. He had to get ready for school, he had an early team practice.

-0-0-

The cool breeze curled up the sidewalks of Ocean Shores. Reggie Rocket pulled at the bottom hem of her skirt, tugging it down to cling just slightly to her hips. She'd always been thin, but when she'd hit puberty, her hips had jutted out somewhat, her shoulders broadened. She'd always been well toned, having spent her entire youth running around and participating in the most demanding of sports. She hated the smallness of her chest, the pout of her lips, and most especially, the frizz of her curled hair; which was tied in an assortment of small braids at the moment. She smiled as her friends, Sherry, Trish, Monica, Lisa, and Shelly made their ways up the street. They waved to her and she waved back. She couldn't believe they were almost done with their freshman year. Time sure flew.

"You look cute," Sherry commented to Reggie, "Expecting something to happen today?"

"No, not really, why ever would you suggest that?" Reggie replied innocently.

"Oh, so then you haven't heard that you took Prom court?" Monica pressed, with a grin. Monica lived in Ocean Bluffs, along with Lisa and Shelly. They liked to ride the bus down to Ocean Shores, called it a 'rural experience', every day for school, which is where Reggie had met the three. They'd all been close friends of Sherry's before that, which didn't make a bond hard to form.

"What? Are you serious?" Reggie grinned slyly, "Okay, maybe I'm just being a little prepared. Just in case…it always pays…to be prepared…"

They fell silent when they noticed a figure moving down the sidewalk. A short girl with blonde jagged hair, and oversized clothes passed them, her head down, bobbing probably to the music only playing in her mind. Reggie shook her head, crossing her arms over her chest and the other girls gave their disapproving stares.

"Rebecca Philip, the skater chick," Shelly recognized, as the figure had disappeared down the street.

"How anybody could call her 'the skater chick' is beyond me," Lisa commented scathingly, "She just dresses like a skater, and listens to the music and hangs out with that crowd. She can't even ride a skateboard."

"That's the thing, Lisa," Reggie clarified, "She doesn't ride skateboards, she rides skaters." The girls all broke into laughter at the casually malicious statement. Except for Trish.

"Then you know," she piped to Reggie, and the other's fell silent, "That she's dating Twister." Reggie's heart skipped a beat, it seemed. She frowned, pushing her hair behind her ears, hoping her cheeks hadn't reddened as her face felt flushed.

"That loser?" she muttered, aggravated and tense, "Isn't he going by Maurice, now? So, he's her latest ride, then? You'd think with her rep she could do better." The girls nervously chuckled, as Reggie strutted forward. She wanted to laugh, but couldn't quite get it out. It sounded more like she was clearing her throat.

Maurice 'Twister' Rodriguez used to be one of Reggie's closest friends. He'd been Otto, her little brother's best friend, from kindergarten up until about two, maybe three years before. They'd all done everything together. Surfed, skated, played street hockey, volleyball, hanging out every moment of the day that they could. Then things stopped being that way. They all started hanging out with different crowds, Twister with a group of kids who skateboarded all day and partied all night. Potheads. Otto never talked about Twister anymore, ignoring the fact the other boy ever existed, and Reggie tried to avoid the subject. She saw him around the high school sometimes. They'd meet eyes and her heart would pound in her chest, with so much emotion. In those brief moments, she'd want to yell at him, to knock some sense in him, drag him home, set him straight, force him to make-up with Otto, force things to be normal again. Then one or the other would look away and she would be left with frustration and confusion, tears brimming her eyes. It was almost as though he wanted something from her and she didn't know what.

"So, how's things between you and Sam?" Lisa questioned, sensing a change of subject was in need. Reggie reluctantly smiled somewhat. Sam Dullard, once the new boy of Ocean Shores and the renowned 'Squid'. She had gone on a few dates with the long time friend. Nothing was official yet, but everyone already accepted the two as a couple.

"Fine," Reggie muttered. It was always fine between the two. Why wouldn't it be? They would talk about books and computers and their days. Sometimes, just sometimes, they would hold hands. And very rarely, he would give her a kiss on the cheek should he feel there was a reason to. But everything was fine. They didn't get in fights, they didn't have disagreements. Everything was pretty much the same as always between them. She sighed, running her fingers over the baby strands of hair surrounding her face. Boring seemed the more appropriate word. She liked Sam, she really did, and their relationship made so much sense. They liked the same things, were both intelligent, in the same classes, and, to some degree, understood each other. They were just in a rut, she would reassure herself. But you normally didn't start out a relationship in a rut.

"How's he feel about you taking Prom court? Is he going to go with you? I'm so jealous, freshman never go to Prom," Shelly exclaimed.

"Oh," Reggie mouthed, her eyes wide, "I haven't talked to him about it yet." It hadn't struck her as something to talk to him about. Strange, how that worked.

-0-0-

Sam marched up the steps of the high school determinedly. He nodded to a few kids as he passed them, and they would acknowledge his greeting with nods of their own. He was on his way to the computer lab, to meet his friends Oliver, Martin, and Yeni. They were working on a computer role-playing game for their computer club together. He was the project leader, being most experienced in game design and programming, so he needed to be there to oversee all their work. He clutched his notebook tightly to his body, and suddenly found himself bowled over by a skateboarder slamming down from grinding the stair railing.

Sam's books flew across the sidewalk, some of the papers scattering. His glasses skidded away from his reach, and his shirt was pulled up, his belly pressed against the cold cement.

"Watch where you're going," he cried, angrily, in a great deal of pain. He pulled himself up to his knees, tugging his shirt back down to a more dignified look, and someone dangled his glasses in front of his nose. He snatched them, pulling them on and discerning that someone to be Otto Rocket, who now stood in front of him, board in hand.

"Sorry, dude," Otto muttered, extending a hand to help Sam up. The boy's dreadlock mess was squashed under his red helmet, and he was dressed in loose fitting designer jeans, a vintage tee, and Nike sneakers. He looked every bit the part of the popular prep boy save for the worn and rugged skateboard in his hands, his odd hairstyle that he refused to cut, and lightly healing battle scars from beefs on his arms, chin, and cheeks.

"Let me guess," Sam grumbled, "Didn't see me?"

"Said I was sorry," Otto persisted, "What more do you want?"

"A little respect for the school rules, maybe? You're not supposed to be skating on school sidewalks, you _know _that," Sam argued, "I could have seriously gotten injured!" Otto rolled his eyes.

"Hey, Otto," a lean and well-toned boy standing at the school entrance called, and said young man turned his head, "We'll be late. Come on!"

"I'm there, Jamal," Otto shouted in reply. Jamal nodded, slipping into the school building.

"Wait, what are you doing here?" Sam demanded, "You don't attend this school. And neither does that kid…"

"But we will next year," Otto pointed out, removing his helmet and starting towards the entrance, Sam following haughtily, while gathering his books and papers off the ground along the way, "We're here to check out the field hockey team, by invite."

"It's the best in the state," Sam commented, matter-of-factly, "Star player and up for team captain next year is Lars Rodriguez. He's good, I've seen some of the games." Otto scrunched his nose. Lars and him didn't fight as much those days, their bitter rivalry diminishing as Otto stopped hanging around Lars's little brother, Maurice. Now, they barely acknowledged the other, even when on opposing sides in the same competitions. But the animosity still remained, even if it was miniscule.

"I know that, Sam," Otto mumbled, "I've read all about the team. Every article in the school and town newspapers, the yearbooks, everything in the library...I know everything about the team. I need to, if I'm going to be on it!"

"Sounds like you're prepared," Sam laughed, straightening his papers, "You'll be playing with some of the best. Guy Wilson, Pi Piston, Manuel Domingo, Tony Marcelli, Sputz Ringley, Trent…" Sam faltered. He wasn't especially fond of the New Zealander.

"Yeah, but I'll be _the_ best," Otto assured him, waving as he raced down the hall towards the back field where team practice was being held. Sam shook his head, heading in the opposite direction towards the computer lab.

The other boys were already there. Oliver tapping at one of the computers, Martin and Yeni going over the coding.

"I think we should put this information in an array, easiest way," Martin was saying.

"Easiest and most efficient," Oliver concurred from where he sat.

"I don't know," Yeni mumbled, "Some of these need to be pulled out as variables for the functions, and we all know how difficult it is to…"

"We can still make it work," Martin argued, "Arrays can be variables."

"But I thought we wanted efficiency," Yeni retorted heatedly.

"And it is efficient, not to mention, a huge space saver!"

"Well, I'm not coding that…that…dare I say it, _darn _mess! There now, look, you have me swearing like a sailor!"

"Whatever you would have us do is more a mess than an array. Arrays are clean, simple, _easy to access_, and huge _space savers!_"

"What are you guys fighting about?" Sam asked cheerfully, dropping his pack to the ground. At once, Yeni and Martin surrounded him, shouting their opposing points of view, and Oliver spun trying to explain what had been going on. "Everyone, calm down! I'm sorry, Yeni, but an array is the best way to save space and, while not the most efficient possibility, the easiest one to do. Need I remind you, we have a deadline?"

"But if we didn't?"

"We'd of definitely sought out a better way," Sam told him, and both Yeni and Martin seemed pleased with the answer, turning to work. Oliver came to stand beside Sam, who slumped against a desk.

"You're not in charge for nothing," he praised, "So what's the news, Sammy boy? Everything jolly good? You look perturbed."

"Oh, it's nothing. I just got ran down by Otto today," Sam muttered, chuckling, "He can be too much sometimes. He's trying out for the field hockey team, another sport for him to rule at."

"Field hockey," Oliver scoffed, "A violent sport. Barbaric…" Sam smiled, shaking his head. Oliver was a true homebody, a nerd at heart. The only "sport" he played was chess, and though he was exceptional at it, he looked down his nose at every other game in creation. He said they weren't challenging, intellectually, so they weren't worth his time. Sure, they were fine for simple-minded people, but not a genius like himself.

"Is your…um…girlfriend coming by?" Marvin asked nervously, chuckling and snorting. Sam frowned. Reggie. He was supposed to meet her that morning. He'd forgotten.

"She's not my girlfriend," Sam stammered, blushing. It was true. Nothing had been decided. They hadn't even talked about it. Admittedly, he hadn't really thought about it.

"Yet, right?" Yeni put in, and Sam couldn't help but grin. The idea of having a girlfriend was pleasant. It would put him above his 'geek' friends, none of which could barely speak to girls. And he liked Reggie, of course. They got along, and could talk easily with one another. She was intelligent, pretty, athletic, and popular. She turned heads as she walked down the hall, and to be close to her put Sam on the top of the school social chain. Guys envied him and girls acknowledged him. It was a good feeling. She was Otto's older sister, the boy who'd nearly run him down. Sam was friends with Otto, who seemed cool about the two of them dating. He didn't protest, didn't say anything, remained oddly neutral in the whole situation. It was as though he didn't care.

Sam positioned himself in front of a computer, booting it up. Otto didn't care about much of anything those days, besides his own popularity, making as many friends as he could, keeping up an image, his reputation. It was as though he was competing with someone; or more specifically, Maurice Rodriguez, his ex-best friend once known as Twister. They hung out in different crowds, maintained different images, so it seemed odd to say they were competing for anything. But Sam knew that look always in Otto's eyes as determination. He wanted to win, at any cost, whatever heat was between him and Maurice.

Sam didn't care about Maurice anymore. They'd once been friends, even as the other boy had constantly picked on Sam, but now he just didn't care. The people Maurice hung out with, looked down on Sam, and some strove to make his life miserable. Maurice walked around with an air of intensity, every move he made was watched by others. He strode with a spotlight shining over his head, and he could be as intimidating as a rock star or as passive as a killer. It seemed there was nothing left of the Twister everyone once knew.

Sam leaned back, sighing heavily and rubbing his eyes. He was tired. He'd been up late working on the project. They would piece it together soon and show it at a demonstration for their computer class. He was excited about it. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if Reggie _would _drop by, but promptly forgot about her as the lines of coding filled his screen.

-0-0-

Otto jogged his way down to the large high school field, where the team was already busy with their practice. He slowed down to a hesitant pace, his friend Jamal and a few others from the middle school surrounding him. They were all watching in awe as the team members, in seemingly synchronized motions ran through a passing drill. They were graceful, every muscle moving with careful precision. Otto easily recognized Lars, the deeply tanned face, dark sunken eyes, clean shaven, and well toned. He narrowed his eyes at the older boy. He didn't really hate Lars as he had in childhood, but there was still a grievance there. Pi and Sputz were more hidden. Pi had dropped some weight, though still larger and bulkier than the other boys, it was all noticeably muscle. Sputz's acne had cleared up, and he'd gotten a buzz cut. He was leaner and actually considered quite handsome by many of the girls at the school. Of course, he had a steady girlfriend, though who Otto spotted on the sidelines watching the team and waving every now and then at her boyfriend. Trent was also a familiar face on the field, as Otto often hung around him. He had the sleek New Zealand charm, one of the taller boys on the team. His long hair was tied back in a short ponytail, and he smiled winningly, flashing brilliant white. The girls, cheerleaders warming up for their own practice off on the side of the field, swooned. Reggie was among them.

"They look good," Jamal commented, and Otto, eyes on the girls, nodded while grinning goofily. He received a hard jab in the side, "I meant the team," Jamal hissed.

"Oh, oh yeah," Otto mumbled, turning his attention back to the field, "Really good," he continued, a sinking feeling in his stomach. Maybe too good. Field hockey wasn't a sport Otto played often, if at all. He'd maybe filled a spot on a game Trent had going at a park once or twice, but the rules and strategy behind the sport were beyond him.

"You must be the middle schoolers," a voice interrupted the chattering boys, and they turned to the speaker, a well built young man wearing a school varsity jacket. He was smiling largely, standing to the side of the field, his equipment on the ground beside him, "I'm Cory Hyndman, the Ocean Shores' Sharks Field Hockey team captain. Walk with me to the bleachers…"

Obediently, the boys fell in step behind Cory as he walked and talked, "Field hockey was first played at Ocean Shores' High school in 1967. They played the first game on this very field, and because they didn't have the proper sticks, regular hockey sticks were used. The first game was played against the Steele Beach Sting Rays, and we won, of course. Winning is a tradition for the Sharks. If you're not a winner, you don't belong on this team, and should probably leave right now," he paused, as though expecting a few of the boys to go, which no one did, before continuing, "You've all been selected to attend this orientation because of your backgrounds in different sports activities, a few of you have even played on field hockey teams prior.

"Now, it's not a requirement that you've played on a field hockey team before, and it won't put you ahead of the other boys by any means. You'll all have a fair chance of making the team. Fair auditions. Everyone is equal here. For those of you wondering, auditions for the team start in three weeks, so train up. You'll know before summer if you've made the team or not, practice sessions are held over the vacation, but they'll be set up by my heir, Lars Rodriguez. I am a senior, and I will be graduating this year," they'd reached the benches, and Cory turned to face the group, "Any questions?"

"Are we gonna get to see a scrimmage?" one of the boys questioned.

"No," Cory answered, "As school starts shortly, we don't have time for a scrimmage. However, if you come after school, you'll be able to see one in session. We have one planned for this afternoon. Yes, practices run before and after school, and sometimes there are meetings during lunch. We train hard, and we've been undefeated forty years straight. We take pride in that, and we are the pride of the school. This is a commitment. Once again, if you're not willing to make that kind of commitment, now would be a good time to leave." No one left. Cory clapped his hands together, grinning broadly, "Alright, boys, take a seat on the bleachers. When the team is done running their drills, they'll come and talk with you. So, I could take questions now." Otto took a seat with the others, brimming with excitement. This was a sport he knew he could rule at.

"What would be expected of us, in regards to team practice attendance?" one of the boys, Otto recognized as Gregory, asked from the back.

"Team practices are held three days a week in the morning, four days a week after school. And the schedule changes around game time, depending on what the team captain decides, whether to boost the practices should the team look shoddy, or to cut back if the team is looking overworked. In regards to attendance, it would be a little ridiculous to demand that you always make it. We don't expect a team member to come to practice if they have an excused absence from school. A note is required at the office following the absence, we do check in with the office to see if a note was brought. If not, you incur a suspension from the team. Excessive tardiness may result in a benching or suspension, excessive absences will result in a booting from the team.

"I know the team is a lot of work, and we don't expect this to be your one priority, nor the only extra curricular activity you'll want to participate in. Should you take up a club that's meeting times clash with the team practices, or your grades are slipping and you require tutelage then you'll have to make arrangements with the team captain. Never will you be asked to choose between the team and any thing else. I've learned from experience, the team can't be your life, and I really hope I've instilled that in my beneficiary," Cory looked around, "Anyone else?"

"That goes for after school jobs, too, right?" Otto spoke up, thinking of his father's restaurant, the Shore Shack, and board shop, Rocket Boards, both that he often helped out in.

"Most definitely," Cory nodded, "Otto Rocket, right?"

"Yeah," Otto grinned, heart pounding giddily. The team captain already knew his name.

"I think you're a definite shoe-in for the team," Cory told him, "Lars was the one who recommended you to this orientation."

"He was?" Otto frowned somewhat, glancing to the field where the boy was talking to Sputz and Trent. He looked like he was explaining something to them. Otto wasn't sure what to feel. They'd been bitter enemies and arch-rivals for the longest time. The notion that Lars would even admit Otto was good enough for anything seemed so far fetched. And Lars so much as wanting Otto on the same team as him, it didn't make sense.

"Yeah, we went to see you at the Street Hockey Face-Off Finals, congrats on the win by the way," Cory went on, then looking to the other boys, "Anything else?" Jamal leaned towards Otto's ear.

"I was there too," he muttered almost bitterly, "But I guess you _were _the star of that game." Otto grinned, relaxing back against the bleachers, as the other boys glanced to him enviously. So, he was a shoe-in.

"The uniforms and equipment are provided by the school?" A boy known as Animal spoke up.

"Yes, but I would recommend you buy your own equipment, as the stuff provided by the school is old and kind of worn," Cory answered.

"Do we get to meet the cheerleaders?" Another boy, Josh said, gaining a few appreciative laughs. He looked about, smirking, and laughing himself.

"Anytime you want," Cory commented, shaking his head. Otto straightened when the team members trekked in from the field, Lars coming to stand at Cory's shoulder.

"We ready?" he asked, impatiently, glancing to the boys sitting randomly on the bleachers a bit offhandedly.

"Yeah, I think so," Cory mumbled in return, before booming, "Let me run through introductions, then the guys will talk about what it's like being on the team, afterwards you boys can ask them questions. Cool?" Nobody protested, "Alright, this is Lars," he patted Lars' shoulder, then pointing accordingly, "That's Trent, Manuel, Tony, Hamlet, Big Guy Wilson, Pi, Damien, Brad, Sputz, and Fritz. Why don't you guys start by running them through an average practice leading up to the games."

"It's a lot of hard work," Manuel commented, and the rest of the team chuckled. He'd pulled his shirt up over his shoulders, his bare chest glistening with sweat. He was leaning heavily on Big Guy Wilson's shoulder, who himself was drinking from a bottle of water and didn't really live up to his name, being fairly short and lean in stature.

"Yeah, don't let Cory's nice front put you off," Tony put in with a thick Philadelphian accent, taking a drawl from his own water bottle, "He's a real slave driver."

"Ah, ha, ha," Cory muttered sarcastically, "Real funny guys. Just tell them the important stuff."

"Okay, okay," Hamlet laughed, stepping forward, and dramatically starting, "I remember my very first practice. I was a wee scared, yes, and all the bigger boys were quite intimidating." Damien pushed him playfully aside, laughing.

"You were two times the size of everyone else on the team, Ham," he teased, causing an uproar of laughter as the larger boy grinned sheepishly.

"Obviously we all spend too much time together," Brad pointed out, between bouts of laughter.

"You have a choice. Make friends or leave," Lars stated, while pulling his shirt off and bundling it up.

"Most people who don't get along with even just one of the teammates leaves within the first week," Trent spoke up, "We're actually short a few second stringers. They left, weren't really necessary first off, and didn't really get along with everyone."

"I was a second stringer," Fritz reminded them.

"That's right," Damien joked, "Go to your corner, cake eater!" Fritz laughed, shaking his head.

"All you boys need to know about this team, is the team members," Fritz said, "Cory is graduating, and sadly leaving us behind for college, as is Brad and myself. So I'll pass on a few hints. Guy earned his nickname and you'll find that out if you make the team, Ham is all mush at heart, Pi knows how to party and you can't really get on his bad side because he doesn't have one, if you're trying to get a lady ask Trent for advice but don't take him along, Damien and Tony both like to run their mouths, Damien to joke around, and Tony to complain, but don't piss either of them off, they can hold a grudge, and then there's Manuel. What is there to say about Manuel?"

"He's charming, he's sweet, he's a real ladies man," Manuel suggested.

"Oh, yeah, arrogant, obnoxious, talks too much…"

"Hey!" Manuel cried.

"You forgot," Big Guy joined in, "Big mouthed."

"Annoying at times," Trent added.

"A real dud," Pi piped.

"Oh I get it, I get it. Whatever, man, whatever," Manuel scowled, "Forget you guys." They laughed, Manuel shaking his head and making to leave in anger.

"We like to pick on him, but he's cool," Fritz explained, as Manuel sneeringly smirked at the others, stalking back to get a playful punch in the arm from Lars, "Sputz is the strong silent type. And Lars looks like he's all seriousness on the field at practice and games, but don't let that scare you. He's cool to hang with."

"And despite whatever you may think now," Brad put in, mock wearily, "We're all very serious when it comes to the game and the team."

Lars sat on the ground, Manuel and Tony joining him, and they looked up at the other guys who were talking. Otto fidgeted slightly. He wanted to be down there, joking with the others, to be a part of that team. In the pit of his stomach, he knew, he never wanted anything more.

"We go to a lot of out-of-state games, as well," Lars spoke up, assuming the role of speaker, and forcing the conversation to take a more informative direction, "So everybody on the team becomes like a second family. We've gone on…twenty something…what is it?"

"Thirty two," Sputz corrected.

"Thirty two overnight games this year. Depending on where the game is, the trip could take half a day, or three days," Lars continued, nodding to Sputz in acknowledgement, "We train hardest for the out-of-state games, because they're a part of the league, as opposed to the little high school games. Those are more like warm-ups, just to keep us in shape. We participate in several competitions, working our way up to the big daddy comp, the Field Hockey Junior National Playoffs. The competitions we win bring in lots of money for the school, our team, and a lot of times lead to team members getting scholarships."

"All three of us graduating are going to colleges on scholarships we've gained through field hockey," Brad interjected.

"Which takes us to grades," Lars went on, "Grades are very important. Coach, who's not here right now, you'll meet him later at auditions, stresses school work over the team. Half an hour of the after school practices are devoted to getting homework done. The school says that we have to maintain a C average to stay on the team, coach says it has to be a B average or your benched until you get the grades up."

"Oh man," Otto moaned under his breath. He'd never maintained a B anything.

"Don't fret so much on the grades thing," Damien spoke up, "A lot of times, at least one person on the team shares the same classes as you. In case you're wondering, we're all study buddies too."

"We do spend too much time together," Brad stated again, in stun, and the others laughed, throwing things his direction. Cory glanced at his watch, frowning.

"We have to wrap this up, guys, you wasted too much time goofing off, as usual," he said, though there seemed no reproach in his tone, "Any questions, boys?"

"Do we have to pay for the trips?" a boy, Eddie, asked, "Out-of-state?"

"No, the school pays for those," Tony answered, "Actually, the money comes from the grants that we get from winning the comps. So really, we are paying for the trips."

"In blood, sweat, tears, and…hockey sticks," Damien mumbled.

"Which cause the blood, sweat, and tears," Ham laughed.

"Only when _you _have the hockey stick," Damien replied and everyone else laughed.

"I have a question," Josh said, "How do…"

"What the fuck?" Lars spat loudly, abruptly bolting to his feet. Everyone looked to him in surprise of the vulgar outburst, but he wasn't paying attention. His eyes were on something in the distance, narrowed. He was scowling.

"Lars, what is…" Cory began, but the other boy was already storming off in the direction he'd been staring. The others looked about in confusion, and Otto turned to see where Lars was off to. He felt his heart pound, a pain he didn't want to even bother explaining clutch his chest, and he frowned as well. A redhead stood in the distance of the field, a wiry figure in baggy clothes and a red and yellow striped hat. There were others with him, but he stood out above the rest.

* * *

END A/N: I'm back! Yeah...ahem...right. It'll probably be two months before I post anything else. Shit. Yeah. Ahem. 

Anyways, how did you all like it? Fun, yes? No? I don't know. Er...yeah, why is Twister (or Maurice) at odds with the other Rocket Gang, you may wonder. Well...you don't get the full background story until much later. Torturous, right? Well, if I told you straight up, you wouldn't keep coming back for more, now would you? Or maybe you would...I don't know what I'm talking about. Anyhoo...lot's of OC's, none of them are hugely important. Except maybe Jamal...and...um...Yeni, because I love his name! But not really Yeni. Oh, and Rebecca! What am I talking about?

Alright, if you haven't figured it out, this story deals a lot with drugs. I will be using street names and slang. I spent a lot of time researching for this story, because I do not know all this crap off the top of my head. However, I will not explain everything. Most things will be obvious from the context of the sentence that they are a drug reference of some sort. I am not here to teach Drug Abuse101. If something needs to be explained to maintain an understanding of the story, I will explain it in the 'END A/N', if not explaining it does not effect the integrity of the story, well, then I won't. If you would like to know what everything means, well, then you can either research it on the internet, or (if you're lazy) you can e-mail me and maybe I'll tell you.

NOW, I don't want people all saying "that's not right" or "that's not believable". For you see, Twister's new friends, are the type of people I hung out with in middle school. Yes. Because my middle school was populated by 99 percent drugggies, 1 percent people just trying to get through the day. If you're wondering "does that mean _I_ did drugs?" I say...well...um...er...uh...drugs are bad for you.

Um...I think that's all for now. Please excuse any grammatical and typing errors. I think I re-read over this chapter hundreds of times, but I probably still missed all sorts of shit. But you know how it is when you're the writer reading back over your stuff...right? Whatever. Please _**REVIEW**_! Or I will never update this. Ever. Again. It will fade away. Dust in the wind. And none of you will ever know the rest of the story! BWHAHAHAHAHA!

Hehe...

oi. I probably will update, even if you don't review. But a review will undoubtedlycoax me to update faster.

Thanks for Reading. Peace. OH, and I'm sorry about the first A/N. I'm cranky and PMSing.


	2. Forsaken

A/N: I did not plan on updating this story so fast, but I figured that with only the first chapter, no one really got a feel for the story. You can't really tell if you're going to like it from one chapter, really...I guess...at least, some people can't.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed:

unlikelytobearit: First reviewer! Yup, Twist gets a lot scarier too...and hopefully, he gets better...I hope...

xxBlueFire920xx: Thank you...I hope your next review is a bit longer, but thanks for the encouragement and I'm glad you liked it!

Warina-Kinomoto: Hey! I missed your reviews, too! I hope you review this next chapter, and I'm trying to work on the next update of A Simple Kiss, I really am...I'm just a little unmotivated is all...

salsipuedes/knoodelhed: Why thank you for the review. It was cool chatting with you on AIM too, and I hope you got over your hold-up on the next chapter of that fic. Rock on.

Alex: YeS! I am alive! I'm so happy! I am working on the next chapter of The Lies They Tell Us, and I do have it half finished...I'm just lacking in motivation in that area. It'll come back...or not, and everyone reading that one will get to sit with it in fanfic purgatory with the Recess readers and their Killing the Daisies fic...I'll finish it, I swear! I just don't know when...

Thanks for the reviews, you guys all rock, so totally!

A note on this chapter: bagman - slang for drugdealer

Alrighty, ENJOY!

* * *

Chapter 2: Forsaken

_Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man,  
play a song for me,  
I'm not sleepy  
and there ain't no place I'm going to.  
Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man,  
play a song for me,  
In the jingle jangle morning  
I'll come following you._

-Bob Dylan, "Mr. Tambourine Man"

Icy phantom fingers trailed up my spine, and I woke, shivering. The world was blurred, kind of grayish, and dull. I glanced around drowsily before my eyes came to rest on my bedside table and the alarm clock resting on it. The red digital numbers stared back at me silently, almost mockingly. I was late. I knew I was late. I tried to determine if I cared. Nope, I didn't. I fell back to the pillow and tried to remember what had happened the night before and how exactly I'd gotten back to my room.

There'd been a party, I recalled that. My parents were out of town, business conference or something along those lines, so it made sneaking out easier. My brother wasn't hard to get past, he rarely checked in on me, and even rarer argued when he caught me leaving. The party was at a house. A big house.

No.

Wait.

A park. There was no house, it was at the park. There was music playing, and cars lined up for miles down both directions of the street. It was a college party, for the most part. I didn't recognize really anyone there. Didn't care. A few of my friends were in the crowd, I knew that. Steve, Lou, Doug-E, Travis, Jordan, and Mike. My stomach turned, almost in revulsion. My girlfriend had been there, too.

There was beer everywhere. Full, unopened cans practically littered the grass, and there was a tapped keg. I could see it clearest in my mind, because I visited it several times. I prefer the keg over the cans. Sometimes people laced the rims of the cans and, while I didn't mind acid, I wasn't in the mood for that kind of trip. We'd gone to that party for one reason, in particular, though the dancing and free beer was quite the plus. We'd come for the quality grass, and no, not the kind growing from the ground.

Gordie. Why did that name seem so vivid in my head? His image flooded back to me almost instantaneously. Small, plump, bald, pale, shady. He'd been wearing a striped shirt, red and black, which made him look humorously like that fat kid on the Addams Family. He was wearing loose jeans, too tight to be considered baggy. They had to have been forcedly tugged down to display his faded blue boxers, which had obviously been manually puffed out by Gordie for effect. He had the look of someone trying too hard. I immediately didn't like him, I remembered that. He was my girlfriend's connection. I'd never met him before that night, or heard mention of him.

"Come on," she'd prompted, "This guy is the best dealer. He's got good quality pot." I wasn't in the mood to deal with new people, and I had told her that. She'd giggled, that annoying noise that made me want to touch her. "It'll be good," she'd reassured me as though that were all the reason in the world to associate with this plump, bald, prick.

Gordie had greeted me like we were old friends. Punching my shoulder, stepping close to my face, laughing, smiling, joking with me and about my name. He smelled like cigarettes and spearmint. Bittersweet. I played along, even as I wanted to punch a hole through his pug face. He dragged my girlfriend into a hug, rubbing his hands on her back, and touched her several times as they talked. I flickered a smirk every time he brought his hand up to trail along her skin, took her hands in his own, brushed her hair from her face. And she returned the attention, poking him in the stomach playfully, standing just close enough to him that their shoulders were touching, talking sweetly and childishly, her version of flirting. As far as I was concerned, she could flirt all she wanted so long as I got weed.

After a stint of chat, that I couldn't understand now that I was sober, we exchanged green. Twenty dollars for a small bag of hash. Then we met up with the other guys behind a cluster of cans. Lou rolled the joint, in the manner only an expert could accomplish, and we passed it around. It had been a while since one hit could start a buzz for me. I was wasted by the third hit, and by the fifth round everything was a blank.

That morning was fuzzier. We'd ditched the guys and come back to my house. Lars was gone but I don't know where he'd been. We tore the kitchen up and for a moment I wondered if it had been cleaned, because we sure as hell didn't clean it. We'd eaten whatever we could find that didn't require preparation. Cold pop tarts, sliced cheese, Doritos, Lays, Fritos, frozen burritos, a few baby carrots, chocolate syrup, cold hotdogs, uncooked ramen noodles. I think I drank some spoiled milk, or else I was eating the sour cream. I couldn't remember. We went through three cans of soda each, before climbing up the stairs and making out.

Clothes had been discarded without any system or grace. And I'd let her touch her mouth dangerously far below my belly button. Heat had flushed through my body, and I'd almost went into her that night. Thankfully I passed out on the bed before it went that far. My girlfriend's hot and everything, and she does turn me on. I am a normal teenage boy, wrought with hormones and I am, of course, always horny. However, my girlfriend is the type that's been around. She's like a used condom, carrying all sorts of diseases and who knows what else. Not to mention, I don't love her. She's the last person I want to lose my virginity to. So I prefer making out, then passing out, and nothing further. Which brought me back to being cold. I was stripped down to my boxers, my covers draped just below my hips, and I was practically hanging off the side of my bed. My door was partially opened, which meant my parents probably checked in on me when they got home. The house was silent, so I assumed they'd both left for work. They were both workaholics. It didn't bother me. They pried in my life less.

I wondered if I should get up. I didn't want to. I was exhausted. School started in fifteen minutes, and I'd agreed to see my girlfriend at "the school". Which meant the high school where she went, not the middle school I attended. She never came around the middle school. Hell, I hardly went there. I rolled onto my back, tucking the covers under my chin and closing my eyes. After she'd left, I'd drifted in and out of sleep. My head still pounded with the buzz of the night before, and it was swimming. For the first time, I wondered if Gordie had dusted the weed with something. There had been one moment where I thought I could see through my hand. It had been one hell of a high, though, so I didn't care.

I had to get out of bed, I knew that. I was going to meet Lou and Steve at the high school as well. I couldn't bail on them, we had things to discuss. We were planning on jumping an asshole, that I liked to refer to as "that little shit". A punk prep kid by the name of Josh that went to the middle school. He thought he was a hoodlum, or something along those lines. Just a rich idiot with something to prove. I had a history with him that didn't matter anymore. I hated him for new reasons now. He'd stolen a few of my CDs and I wasn't going to let it slide.

I pulled myself up to a sitting position, staring blearily out at my room. A Hendrix poster was taped to my door, clothes littered my floor, crushed empty cans of soda lay here and there, a pack of cigarettes that I knew weren't mine were shoved between a stack of magazines, a large poster of a tie-dyed mushroom hung on my ceiling, pictures of my family were knocked over on my bedside table and dresser, and my walls were covered in posters of bands, pictures I'd taken, magazine cutouts, a few of my own artwork, and practically anything else I could plaster on the wall with tape or staples. The white beneath couldn't be seen at all. I couldn't remember when I'd hung them all, they just started ending up there.

I searched the floor for a clean pair of jeans, tentatively sniffing each one I came across until I found a pair that didn't smell as bad as the rest. I pulled them on. They were too big for me by at least four sizes, hanging down below my hips, and my boxers peeked out. I tugged them up, they slipped back down, I pulled a belt loosely through the loops and gave them no more thought. I flung my closet open, shoving the shirts I no longer wore to one side, and pulled out a blue Hurley tee, tugging it on over my head and noting that my Independent sweatshirt was gone. I tried to remember why, but couldn't. I figured it would turn up eventually.

I found my sneakers, brown Vans, and slipped them on my feet. Grabbed my sweatshirt, hooded, dark olive green, Speed Demon was lettered across the front over a picture of a helmeted devil, and I tugged it over my head. I then grabbed my board, scratched and worn from rough riding, and flung the door to my room open. I paused, snatching up my hat, red and yellow striped, and plopped it over my red hair. I took the necklaces, my shark tooth and a golden cross, that always dangled in front of my chest and tucked them into my shirt, locking my bedroom door behind me. I wasn't paranoid, that my parents would search it. In fact, they rarely went in there. I just felt more secure, and secluded, knowing I could lock that door. I had my privacy.

I jogged down the staircase, and peeked in the kitchen. It had been cleaned and nothing remained of the mess my girlfriend and I had left behind save for the discarded containers piled in the trash. A note had been left in my mother's swooping, delicate handwriting. 'Please empty the garbage', it read. I raced out the door, slamming my board to the pavement and tearing down the road. I could see the beach in the distance, smell the salt in the air. It tasted stale against my dry tongue. I could make out a sailboat's mighty mast against the horizon, and knew that a few surfers were already out on the waves. I frowned, turning my attention to the black pavement rolling beneath my skateboard too fast to follow. I didn't go near the beach. At least, not anymore.

The high school was crowded with students, and I boarded my way through them. I was heading for the backfield, but paused momentarily, nearly colliding with a group of girls. I stumbled off my board to avoid them, kicking it into my hand and walking around them. They turned to me, annoyed, and I shrugged in reply, walking up the pathway. I paused, seeing two familiar figures walking towards the school entrance. The short, stout boy was Sam Dullard. He was talking, his eyes closed as he explained in the manner accustomed to one who knew everything, something or the other to the boy he was walking with. I frowned, feeling my stomach lurch with nausea. It was too early in the morning to have to see Otto Rocket's face, and it was always too early to deal with him. I ducked my head down, passing them by, and catching snippets of their conversation. They were talking about field hockey. I snorted. It was a stupid sport.

My brother ate, slept, and breathed it. Everything was all about his teammates, and the team, the games, the competitions, the stupid sport. I hated it. I hated hearing about it. And I hated my brother because he constantly went on about it.

I jogged around the side of the building, making to jump the back fence. I stopped. There was giggling near by, girls chattering. I looked around, my eyes falling on the small group. They were all sitting on the bleachers that surrounded the field, talking. Cheerleaders and their friends. I knew a few of them, Sherry and Trish most predominantly. Bitches, as far as I was concerned. Sherry talked too much shit, and Trish only ever talked to say something snide. The other girls I knew were rich bitch Ocean Bluffs bred prep queens wearing too much make-up. I disregarded them.

I was staring, I knew it. But her soft features and gentle smile, graceful motions and misleadingly shy giggle wasn't something you couldn't stare at. She moved a hand to push fine purple baby strand curls from her face, and let her white teeth briefly flash. Her hair was done up in braids, I thought it looked better down. Her make-up was light, unnoticeable, and I only knew she was wearing some because for the most part of my life I'd only seen her without it. Her eyes were blue. It didn't seem right. She could express so much with just those eyes, and I hated when she looked at me with them, because I could read everything she felt towards me. Disappointment, mostly. Loathe, scorn, reprove. And sadness. She always looked sad when she saw me.

I leaned heavily against the fence, pretending she was talking to me. Not flirtatious talk like I got from my girlfriend, or the chatty kind she was sharing with her friends. No. The kind of talking we used to do. Joking around, laughing at the good times, serious at the sad. Make fun of me, I silently pleaded with her, notice me, say my name, call out to me, tease me just once. Just for old times sake. A heaviness clouded my heart and I could feel my body trembling. I felt like a child. A child that had fallen down and his mother refused to pay him mind, simply saying, "Keep up."

She pushed her hair behind her ears, and, almost suddenly, caught me. Our eyes met. Her friend was saying something, and the others excitedly replied. They didn't notice that she was lost from their conversation, lost with me in that swirl of emotions and tension rushing between us. I wanted to do something. Something cool, something that would make her smile. I wanted her to come over. I wanted her to stay there. I wanted to do something to disrupt the connection, I wanted to stay in that moment forever. I wanted her to know I had been staring at her, I hoped she didn't. I wanted her to touch me. Not like my girlfriend did. I just wanted her to touch my face, my hands, my neck, my shoulders. I wanted to feel her, not like I was feeling her at that moment. I wanted to physically feel her. To know she was real, and not just a hallucination, that I wasn't tripping on some drug. And in that, realize that my past, my memories that seemed so false now, were all real as well. That she existed, and that we had once been more than a few awkward moments of meeting eyes. That I had been happy once, no matter how jaded or childish that happiness had been.

The wind kicked up, knocking my hood up onto my neck and the back of my head, and somehow reminding me that I had other places to be. Her friend playfully slapped her arm, trying to get her attention. She turned away from me, eyes lowered. She looked a little pink-cheeked, but I wasn't certain. I felt a gapping hole in my chest, turning to the fence in front of me. I climbed up with practiced ease, skateboard firmly tucked under my arm. I dropped over the other side and skinned the palm of my hand when it hit the gravel to balance my fall. It hurt, a slight stinging. It felt good.

I strode forward across the field towards the back fence. I had to pass the bleachers unless I wanted to cross the field. The field hockey team was practicing, and I didn't want to get in their way. Or be seen by my brother Lars. I don't know which mattered most. I lowered my head as I passed, glancing her once more from the corner of my eye. The girls were silent, all except her watching me like hawks wondering if I was prey, an enemy, or irrelevant. They decided the latter, waiting until I was far enough away that they assumed I couldn't hear them anymore before continuing their conversation. They were talking about dating, guys, and prom.

Wasn't that all girls talked about?

Steve was a freshman at the high school and Lou went to school with me. They were already there, leaning against the far fence. Steve was tall, and well toned. His hair was sandy blonde, bowl cut, strands scattering in his face. He shook his head to get them out. He had dark eyes that could light up like a candle or extinguish like a dead flame depending on what kind of high he was riding. I'd only ever seen him wear one pair of jeans, and he had about four t-shirts, all Element brand. A Marlboro was balanced between his teeth, and he grinned my direction, lighter in hand, turned up on high for bong style. He loved smoking from bongs. It was cool, except when you shared a pipe with him. He could cash a bowl himself and still need more for a buzz. It made him a real hash hog.

Lou was sitting on the ground, and I punched fists with him.

"Hey, Tambourine Man, how's it going?" I greeted, then nodded in Steve's direction.

Everyone called Lou 'Tambourine Man' for two reasons. He always had his stereo with him because he loved music. And he was a bagman, the only one I called a friend. He had long greasy brown hair, hanging past his shoulders, and a black tam was pulled on his head. The bags under his eyes and placidness of his skin was the biggest indication of how long he'd been doing drugs. He was short, thin, his lips were dry and his pupils were constantly shifting back and forth. I don't know if it was just naturally how he was, or if he'd done so many drugs for so long, but he always seemed to be on a permanent high. He was slant eyed, his words slurred, and he seemed incapable of holding an intelligible thought for too long. He was always chilled out, laid back, and one of the few people I got along with all the time. He knew all about music, the only thing that seemed to remain in his head, and we could talk for hours about it.

"Been better, loco dude," he replied with a goofy smile, "I lost a dime bag of my best shit, and my stash is low on stock. Total drain on my pocket. Forget the fact my postman's late. I can't deal with that panic right now…"

"No doubt," I muttered, shaking my head, shoving my hands in my sweatshirt pockets and looking to Steve.

"What's up, Maurice," he said, saluting me. I shrugged, leaning on the fence to hover above Lou, "You and Trix have fun?" I frowned. Trix was my girlfriend's nickname, like the cereal but with a different meaning. I guess it was better than Lucky Charms. We call Mike's girlfriend that sometimes, but she isn't as into it as Trix. So we just do it when we want to annoy her. Which is pretty much all the time. She's a bitch. So is Trix, but at least I get to make-out with her.

"None of your damn business," I replied shortly. Steve laughed, though it wasn't really funny. He was a jackass. Lou chuckled as well, but I think he was just laughing because Steve was laughing and he found that fact funny.

"What's with lilac?" Lou questioned, and I gave him an odd look. I didn't know what he was talking about. He motioned over my shoulder to the bleachers, and I felt my face grow hot. I turned to follow his gaze, feigning a stupefied glance.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" I muttered, peeved, and embarrassed. They didn't know about her, about my past with her, about my thoughts on her. They didn't know how she made me feel, and they weren't going to find out, not if I had my way.

"I saw you looking at her. She had you under her spell, like a rat in headlights or some shit like that," Lou pressed, hiccupping and snickering.

"Who you talking about, Tambourine Man?" Steve demanded, following as Lou pointed her out.

"Lilac," he mumbled, "Don't know her name…the girl with the purple hair, white shirt, short skirt. Real fancy, done up..."

"I don't fucking know who he's talking about," I insisted, shifting uncomfortably as the two squinted, examining her.

"Dude, that's Regina Rocket," Steve exclaimed, saying her name almost mockingly and I winced. I wasn't surprised Steve knew who she was, but I hadn't been prepared to hear her name aloud. I said it silently to myself sometimes, but there was something abrasive, harsh about it against my ears, "She's a babe. A total bitch, hangs out with bitches. But dude, she's hot. There was this one time…well, see, she has P.E. the same time I have study hall. So I was ditching with Kyle and Nick, and the girls were running, and you know how the P.E. uniforms are like white shirts, and shit. Her and her friends were jogging by together, in those white shirts, and we'd gotten water bottles from the vending machines. We soaked them, the entire front of their shirts, and it was kind of chilly out and they were wearing those thin sports bras underneath so their boobs…"

"Shut the fuck up," I spat before I could stop myself. I grimaced. I had seen Steve getting excited just at the memory, and Lou on the ground straightening, interest piqued. Dirty thoughts had been racing through their minds, and it bothered me. They weren't allowed to think that way about her.

I wasn't allowed to think that way about her.

My heart was pounding, and I knew my cheeks were red. I looked away, biting down on my tongue in anger. "Aren't we here for a reason?" I pressed, hoping to change the subject.

"Yeah. Sure, sure," Lou mumbled, "Who we fucking up today?"

"You seem pretty touchy about the subject of Regina Rocket," Steve persisted, "Hey, doesn't she live down the street from you?"

"Dude, Steve…" Lou slurred.

"I'm just wondering," Steve grinned. I hated him, "Maybe I should tell Trix about your little crush…" I slammed him against the fence by the collar of his shirt, sinking my fist in his stomach. He sank down within himself, his brow drawing together, his face contorting with the pain. I dragged him back up, pinning him against the chain links. His cigarette fell crushed to the ground, fizzling. Lou was silent, watching us with a smirk. Ten bucks, he saw it coming.

"Why you gotta piss me off, Steve?" I hissed, "You know I don't like when you give me shit about Trix."

"I'm sorry, man," he groaned, clutching his injured gut. I let him go, falling back against the fence once more, and shaking my head.

"Then drop the fucking subject."

"It's dropped, man, it's dropped," he coughed, attempting to maintain some sort of dignified stance. He leaned against the fence, heavily, shoving his hands in his pockets and glancing darkly my direction, "We cool?"

"Yeah, sure," I muttered, "Can we get back to why I'm here?"

"That little shit?" Lou provided hesitantly.

"Yes. That little shit," I hissed, "Josh, or whatever."

"We jump him after school. Problem solved," Steve said, "That was easy."

"Nope," Lou piped, "He broke Maurice's Beatles tape. Premium sound, gone in a crushed moment…no more Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, no more girl with kaleidoscope eyes…he's got to pay, dude, pay with more than blood. He has to…"

"We jump him after school," I interrupted, "But I need to know Mike and Jordan'll be there. I can take the jerk by myself, I just need insurance if his prep friends are there."

"They're all weenies, dude, you can take 'em," Steve insisted, rubbing his stomach somewhat dejectedly while muttering under his breath, "I _know_ you can."

"I just want Josh. I don't want to deal with the others," I shrugged, "If I'm pounding other guys' heads, then that's less time spent pounding his head."

"They'll be there," Steve assured me, "Middle school, right?"

"No, the fucking moon," I cynically retorted. He shrugged, "School gets out at two. Back entrance, he rides a bike. We can hit him there. Hall monitors don't usually come around."

"Cool," Lou conceded, "You really want to go through with this kind of set up, Maurice? I -thought you were all like, Mr. I-don't-fight-unless-it's-a-spur-of-the-moment-fun-for-me-not-for-the-guy-who's-face-I'm-smashing-in-kind-of-fucking-deal. You can get in serious shit for this, you know…dean and the VP already have it out for you."

"Josh has been asking for it," I pressed. I really just hated the little shit, that was my only reason. My stolen CDs were just an excuse, "He's always pissing me off. He walks around like he's real cool and shit, and I can't stand that. He's a fucking dick, acts like he's down when he ain't, stealing and breaking my shit. He needs to learn his fucking place, that's what he needs. And that's what I'm gonna do, teach it to him."

"Chill, Maurice," Steve interrupted, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, "I don't need a reason to put my fist through that smug bastard's face." He pulled another cigarette out, placing it between his lips and working the lighter from his pocket. I shook my head, offering a hand to Lou, and helping him to his feet. He wobbled slightly, giggling to himself and staring at the ground humorously.

"I'm supposed to see Trix," I said, though I don't know why. Maybe I wanted to chat. Everything seemed so fuzzy, so confusing when I wasn't wasted. I couldn't even begin to understand why I did half the things I did. At least when I was high, I didn't care and I had an excuse. Steve looked up at me through his eyelashes, cupping his hand over the tip of the cigarette and lighting it. It blazed red, and he took a long drawl from it before taking it from his lips.

"You trying to tell us something?" he chuckled through gritted teeth, billowing smoke from his lips and nostrils. I shrugged, pressing my hands deep into my hooded sweatshirt's pockets and concentrating on the chain-link fence. He looked like a dragon when he did that. Not like the cool Asian ones, but like the evil medieval ones. It bothered me, when I compared things like that.

"Yeah, dude," Lou spoke up, punching my shoulder lightly, "He just said it, he has to go see Trix."

"I don't have to nothing," I spat, "Fuck it. I don't want to see her." I glanced over my shoulder, the field hockey team had converged around the bleachers. There was a group of kids sitting up in them, a few I recognized from my school. Otto was there. So was Josh. "What the fuck's going on over there?"

"Orientation or some shit like that," Steve answered, taking another hit from his cigarette with a deep hissing noise and puffing out the smoke before continuing, "You know, join the mighty Sharks, pride of Ocean Shores High, propagandist bull like that. Must be real honorific, and crap, to be the chosen ones. Hell, I could try out for the fucking team and probably make it."

"Not the way you smoke man, like a fucking chimney," I commented, and Steve snickered, sucking at the Marlboro. I frowned, glancing out at the street and houses lined up across from the school. Once upon a time, I had played sports like they were the only thing to live for. Once upon a time I would have been in those bleachers too, just to sit beside my _best bro,_ Otto. Once upon a time, I cared about more than beating the shit out of some stupid kid. Once upon a time…

I was surprised, when Lou and Steve fell silent, staring behind me. I felt a jerk, someone grabbing my arm and spinning me around. I stumbled slightly. I was still lightheaded, still buzzing, and it was early so I was tired. I caught my balance with a bit of a struggle, my hand tightening into a fist, as I turned angrily on this newcomer.

"What the fuck is your problem?" I demanded, but bit my tongue instantly. My brother Lars glowered back at me. He flickered a glance to Steve and Lou.

"Put that fucking cigarette out, or I'm calling the fucking cops on your punk ass," he growled at Steve, who took another hit from the stick before smashing it against the fence pole. I felt my face grow hot, my heart pounding, adrenaline kicking through my veins. He turned his fiery eyes back on me.

"What do you want?" I asked cheekily.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" he returned.

"Checking out the field hockey team," I blurted out the first thing that came to mind, it sounded like a sarcastic sneer, it was meant to be a low blow, "Maybe I'll try out. You think I got a shot?"

"You're supposed to be at school, _Maurice_," he snarled, narrowing his eyes at me.

"School don't start until…" I began, then fell short, looking to the others with an amused smirk, "What time _does _school start?" Lou sniggered, gaining a glare from my brother. He swallowed hard, shrugging and preoccupying himself with studying his dirty fingernails.

"Fuck, Maurice," Lars snarled, pushing me in anger, I stumbled back before falling into a heavy lean against the fence, "You even gonna go today?"

I chewed my lower lip, looking up at him in frustration, trying to keep my head cool. I was embarrassed. I hated when Lars came around, especially when my friends were there. They expected me to be a smart ass to him, to talk back, and give him lip. I was scared of my older brother. My entire life, he'd beat on me. It made me tougher, yeah. I could win any fight against any guy. I could scrap better than any of my friends and they all knew it. What they didn't know was that Lars could take me. He could more than take me. I stood no chance against him. I probably couldn't even get one hit in.

"I haven't decided yet," I muttered cynically, meeting his eyes coldly. His frown stretched tautly over his face. There was a twitch, in his cheek, just beneath his eye. Just a tick, that went off whenever I got on his nerves.

"Well, I'm deciding for you," he roared, grabbing my arm and dragging me across the field. I struggled, jerking my arm in a futile attempt to free myself from his tight grasp.

"Let me go," I hissed, but he didn't flinch, "Where the fuck are you taking me?" I stumbled in my struggling, looking to Steve and Lou who were staring at their feet, embarrassed for me.

"I'm taking your ass to school," he replied evenly, daring me to argue with that.

I could see his teammates, staring in shock of his behavior. They didn't know about Lars's black sheep little brother, the pothead. The lame kids from my school, watched, some laughing at my predicament. I assumed they were the ones who didn't know me, because I sure as hell didn't know them. Otto was staring at me. No, staring down his nose at me. And then he simply looked away. I thought I hated him, but every time he did that, ignored my presence, turned his back on me, it felt like a bullet hitting my chest. I didn't know why. I didn't care about him anymore, didn't care about what he thought of me or anything else.

We crossed the field in a matter of moments. I could see kids, hanging around the high school, staring at us openly. I glanced back, the girls on the bleachers watching. She was watching. My heart quickened and my cheeks deepened in red.

"No sé que lo que tú piensas tú estás haciendo. ¿Importa si le llevo a la escuela¿Cuánto tú has faltado ya?" Lars was ranting. He liked to rant in Spanish. I think it was because he didn't think anyone else could understand him. Hell, most of the time, I couldn't understand him. Either that, or it just came out in that language because he wasn't thinking straight. Or maybe because it made him sound more like our parents, who always yelled at us in Spanish. I didn't know. I didn't really care.

I needed to do something. Anything. It was too much, being treated like a child in front of all those people. I looked to the boys, lined up on the bleachers, and grinned, putting all my effort into a stop. Lars jerked to a halt, losing his grasp on me.

"Hope you all make it to the dick squad," I announced in mock pleasantness, it was the first thing that spilled from my lips, and, while I wasn't sure at first where I was going with it, it sounded pretty good, "You know, the we-don't-have-one-so-we-have-to-be-one squad." Eyes widened, and I could feel the anger bubbling through the crowd. Lars gritted his teeth, drawing in his breath, and I could _hear _him trembling with rage.

"Lars, who the hell is this and what's his problem?" an older boy stepped forward, glowering menacingly at me. He had the attitude of one who didn't curse often. 'Hell' didn't sound right, didn't roll off his tongue the right way. Lars didn't answer, just moving forward and smacking the back of my head. I didn't regard the move, setting my jaw firm. It hurt where he'd struck me but I wasn't going to let him see that. He grabbed me behind my neck, beginning his rant again, shoving me towards the school and leaving those other boys behind, obviously uncertain of what had just happened. I heard that boy, the older one, turn around, apologizing to the younger kids lined on the bleachers. Telling them he'd get an explanation and that he was sorry for that intrusion. The hair on the back of my neck prickled at that. Intrusion, that's what I was, an intrusion.

I gave up fighting against Lars, letting him lead me away with my head lowered. That insult felt good. Their reactions, their anger, shock. The field hockey team was precious to Lars, and I hurt it. I'd hurt something precious to Lars, and that very fact alone felt good.

We stopped, outside, in the front of the school. The first bell had rung, and students were racing to class. The front was nearly empty of people. Lars let me go and I turned to face him, wary of whatever he may do. I'd meant what I said, and I wouldn't take it back. He shook his head, frowning. He didn't seem as tightly wound as before. All anger, all frustration, had simply dispersed.

"You taking me to school?" I finally dared to speak up, then quipped tauntingly, "You'll be late getting back for class." He snapped his head up, eyes locking with my own, and I lost the will to hold that gaze, the first to look away, downcast. I think I looked ashamed and I knew I probably should have felt at least some form of remorse. I'd been an ass. But I was too proud of my moment, too satisfied with myself.

"What's the point?" he muttered, turning away and shaking his head, "You're a lost cause anyways…" He left back up the stairs to the school building, and I stood watching as the double doors slammed shut behind him. I chewed the inside of my cheek until blod spilled over my tongue, my eyes were wet and I didn't know why.

"Fuck you," I whispered bitterly, before noticing Lou peeking from the side of the building. He looked both directions, as though preparing to cross a street, before jogging over to me in a duck-like strut.

"He set you free, huh?"

"Something like that," I murmured.

"What's the hang up? You look drawn out," Lou said, giving me a nonobjective once over. I rubbed my hands over my face, taking a deep breath. My fingers were trembling.

"Too much has happened today," I moaned, "Let's do something. I don't want to go to school."

"Figured you wouldn't," Lou grinned toothily, "Doug-E might have a stash stored for a rainy day. I figure you're looking for a fix." I nodded.

"You know me too well, Tambourine Man," I replied, forcing a half-smile and letting him take the lead. My shoulders felt heavy, weighted, like the world sat on them. That day had been nothing but unwelcome familiar strangers, my past reeling up to smack me in the face, stabbing me in the back all over again.

I hate how they look away. Otto, Lars, her. It's not the anger, the sadness, the frustration, the disappointment in their stares that gets me, that cuts me deep. It's always when they look away.

-0-0-

Otto walked in silence next to Jamal, Josh and Eddie. They were chattering excitedly about what had happened at the orientation between the Rodriguez brothers. Otto didn't want to hear about it anymore. His stomach was a knot and his head was hurting.

"But who was that kid?" Jamal asked. He'd moved to Ocean Shores about a year and a half ago, so he didn't know Lars or any of the past Otto shared with the Rodriguez family, most particularly the youngest son.

"That was Lars's little brother, Twister," Eddie answered eagerly. Otto stumbled in his steady pace, stopping to catch himself. The other boys halted, turning to look at him in surprise. He knelt down, as though to tie his shoelace.

"He's a fucking loser. Will you guys forget about it already?" Otto growled. He was tense and he knew it. Maurice's comment stuck with him, about the 'dick squad'. He'd never felt happy to see Lars whomp on someone before, but when the older brother had struck the younger on the head, Otto had felt a smile spread across his face. Beat the shit out of him, he'd commanded silently. That's what the pothead needed. A good beating.

"Jeez, Otto, there's finally a little excitement around here, and you don't want to talk about it?" Jamal persisted. Eddie was respectably silent, but Josh felt the need to back Jamal up.

"Right, just because he was your best friend," he started before receiving a quick jab in the ribs from Eddie. He grunted, "What?" Otto had frozen, and Jamal quirked his head.

"Best friend? Otto, _that _kid is your best friend?" he piped, confused. Otto stood abruptly, standoffishly. His hands tightened into fists. He narrowed his eyes at Josh, before disregarding him and turning to Jamal.

"Don't mistake," Otto hissed, "'Was' is the operative word. Twister Rodriguez _doesn't _exist and Maurice Rodriguez was _never _my best bro. Don't ever forget that." He pushed his way past them, storming forward towards their middle school. Reluctantly, the others followed.

"What's his deal?" Jamal whispered to Eddie, who looked down at the cement in silence. So he turned to Josh, "I've never seen Otto-man like this. What's up with this Twister/Maurice kid?"

"They used to be best friends…they grew apart," Josh explained nonchalantly, "End of story."

"That's not it," Eddie murmured, "They were more than best friends, they were like brothers. They did everything together. Maurice, the way you saw him back there, a total jerk, he wasn't always like that…okay, he could be a jerk sometimes, but he used to be really cool."

"What are you talking about?" Josh whispered harshly, "He was never cool."

"He was cooler than you," Eddie argued, "He used to be someone…he used to be nice. Used to be friendly, cool to hang out with."

"_Really_?" Jamal asked in disbelief, glancing over his shoulder as though expecting Maurice to be standing in the distance, "What happened?"

Otto flinched. He had been listening to them, and had prayed he could hold his tongue. He slipped his thumbs under his backpack straps and pursed his lips.

"Nothing happened," he barked, "You don't turn into a lame-o. You're always a lame-o. He was a lame-o from the beginning. He just had us fooled." The others hushed, guilt settling in their stomachs uneasily. They silently agreed that the subject was dropped, continuing to school quietly.

* * *

END A/N: Okay...um...that's it for now. You get no more for a long time, until I finish with the fanfics I haven't finished! Probably...you might, I can't foresee the future, afterall.

Please excuse any grammatical and typing errors. I only got five reviews on that first chapter...gosh, I feel so unloved...I hope more people review this chapter...I worked really hard on it, after all. If you read it, review it. Even if it's just to say a few words, I want to hear from you! Pretty please...

Thanks for Reading, and Peace Out.


	3. Potentially

A/N: I hate going so long without updating anything, and as this is the only thing I have written up...AUGH! I guess I'll post it. One note: Rage is Rage Against the Machine, ICP is Insane Clown Posse, for those of you who know nothing of music.

Reviewers! This is my first rated M story, so I'm so stoked that people are reading it:

unlikelytobearit: First to review chapter 2! Yes, damn twist, what's with him, anyways?

Warina-kinomoto: It's cool, so long as I got a review from you! I'm glad you like this story so much and I love getting reviews from you!

xxBlueFire920xx: Thanks for the praise, and yeah, the Beatles are the best, afterall. And, you know, your totally excused for the short review. Bummer about your grandma...mine just recently got out of the hospital again. I'm glad the rest of your reviews'll be longer, and i'm holding you to that! Yeah, there are a lot of new people to remember, and only a few of them I go into any real in-depth detail about. Those I don't, really aren't that important, to the story and to Twist. Yeah, poor Twist. His life is in shambles, and as of yet, I haven't given a reason to why. This reminds you of the group you hang with? I'm a little worried now...how does it remind you of the group you hang with...what part...may I ask...?

salsipuedes: Yes, I am pretty good at characterization, at the risk of sounding concieted. Lars always tends to get the short end of the stick in fanfics, and I hate that, because he is one of my fave characters from the show and I love his relationship with his little brother. Eddie is another of my faves. Josh...uh...not so much. I'll go more into them later, and Otto's new friend Jamal. Yeah, Twist has a slightly skewed perspective of life, as you will see later on when I start seriously backtracking...you'll understand what I mean in the next chapter. I guess you'll just have to wait and see what happened in those three years that have passed since Twist and Otto were best bros, and I ain't spilling no secrets. (Insert maniacal laughter here). SUFFER! I had to include the Bob Dylan song for two reasons, so the little kiddies would understand my obscure reference in Lou's nickname "Tambourine Man", and because that song is so awesome! Thanks once again for those lyrics, I haven't found a way to work them into the story yet, but I have a few ideas. Peace.

Alex: Yes, poor little Maurice...but don't call him stupid! he is a little lost, and he's really killing his lungs, but he's not stupid. he's just making the wrong choices in life. but...yeah...i don't know if we will get Twister back...and yes, plot is the word you're thinking of. Thanks for the review, and, well...i said I wouldn't, but I updated. Let's see what happens in a few more weeks! Rock on.

ENJOY!

* * *

Chapter 3: Potentially

_How impossible dreams manifest  
And the games that be comin' with it, nevertheless  
You gotta go for the gusto  
But you don't know  
About the blood sweat and tears  
And losin' some of your fears  
And losin' some of yourself to the years past, gone by  
Hopefully it don't manifest for the wrong guy_

- Cyprus Hill, "(Rap) Superstar"

Doug-E, or more appropriately, Douglas Evan Sanchez, at seventeen, was the oldest of all my friends, and that alone was enough to make him the coolest. He had his own apartment, lived on his own, though his parents paid for the place. He had dropped out of High School, and worked part-time at a record store. He was tall, lean, rough. He was half-Mexican, and had the light undertones of a person with a Hispanic heritage, sporting slight Caucasian features. His father had been Mexican, supposedly. Doug-E never met the guy. Mr. Sanchez had swept in and then out of Merle's life like a hurricane, leaving her pregnant and heartbroken. Merle being Doug-E's mother. She'd been in love, so because of this, she'd given birth to Doug-E rather than having that abortion her parents recommended, and lived a dangerously poor life on welfare before meeting the rich, handsome bachelor, Harrison Grayling. She loved Harrison, and his fortune and wealth. He married Merle, but wanted nothing to do with Doug-E. So, after a long period of living uncomfortably together under one roof, Harrison dangled the apartment in front of Doug-E's nose and Doug-E snatched it up so fast Merle was still recovering.

Needless to say, Doug-E didn't have a strong relationship with his mother, and rarely talked to her. He would have cut her out of his life altogether if it wasn't for Harrison and 'the agreement'. He had to go to the house to pick up his rent check, and see his mother every month. Harrison liked Merle to be happy, she put out more. And seeing Doug-E made Merle happy.

I envied Doug-E. He was handsome, with dark hair, the light signs of a mustache just above his lip, a good build, and clear, lightly tanned skin. I was almost full-Mexican, and I had to have red hair and freckles. I tanned nicely, but those damn freckles. He bulged with muscles as well. I couldn't bulk up if my life depended on it, remaining lean and thin, scrawny. I had muscle, yes, but Doug-E had bodybuilder muscle. He always laughed at me when I told him this. He pointed out that I was still a kid and he was almost an adult, and that I still had a lot of growing up to do if the drugs I was constantly on didn't stint that.

Lou and I stood on Doug-E's doorstep, ringing the bell. We waited. He was home, we had seen his car out front. Another thing that made Doug-E so cool. He had a car. Even my older brother didn't have a car. And Doug-E was more than willing to drive us all around. I guess it should have struck me as strange, that such an older boy didn't mind hanging out with younger kids. And at times, it did. But he did have older friends as well. He'd introduced me to some of them before. It had been awkward. I'd gotten high with them, and one of his friends, some guy, was touching me, saying strange things to me and shit. Doug-E got mad at the guy, and they got in a fight. Then Doug-E dragged me out of there, telling me I had to be smarter about who I got high with. Straight or gay, pedophiles didn't care, he'd said, stoned out of their mind I was a cute kid with freckles. I didn't know what a pedophile was at the time, and I'd thought of looking the word up in the dictionary at home. I didn't even know if we had a dictionary. But Doug-E and I hit another party and I forgot about it. I'm still not sure if I know what 'pedophile' means. I don't really care.

The door cracked open and Doug-E looked down at us unsurprised.

"Shouldn't you two be at school?" he asked. He spoke with a thick Hispanic accent, even though he'd never been raised around it and couldn't speak a word of Spanish. He said it made him sound tougher, and people expected it when they saw him. I started talking with my accent thicker because of him, though I'd never admit it.

"They gave us the day off," I joked, and Doug-E raised an amused eyebrow.

"What for?"

"It's 420," I answered smugly. He shook his head at me, before further opening the door to let us in. He looked a little rumpled, as though he'd just woken up. He was shirtless and barefoot, wearing nothing but jeans, and we could see his red boxers poking out from the top. His hair was mussed, and his eyes drooped exhaustedly. He didn't say anything about it though, just motioning us to the couch. Lou set his stereo up on the coffee table, taking off for Doug-E's entertainment system.

Lou and I were the only ones of all our friends able to just show up on Doug-E's doorstep without an invite, and to be let in without further question then "what's going on?". I didn't know why it was, but I thought it had something to do with the fact Lou, Doug-E and I were a lot closer than all the other guys. But I didn't know why that was either. Maybe Doug-E found us less annoying.

"Don't you flunk if you miss a certain amount of days?" Doug-E asked, leaving down the hall into his bedroom, and returning shortly with a shirt. I shrugged, and Lou was too preoccupied with the stereo to hear.

"Dude, can we put a CD on…I need to hear the amp-age," Lou commented, deftly pressing a few buttons. The stereo lit up.

"Sure, whatever," Doug-E muttered, pulling the shirt over his head and plopping on the couch beside me. He slumped, closing his eyes and laying his head on the high back of the seat, "What's up, Maurice?"

"Nothing much, dude," I mumbled my reply, rubbing my hand over the back of my neck and slouching.

Doug-E's apartment was well stocked, as his mother made sure Harrison furnished her precious son's dwelling with the best of everything. He had a big screen television that he never watched, a top of the line entertainment system, leather couch, fine shag carpets, a huge collection of vinyl records, cassette tapes, and CDs, videos, DVDs, a home theatre, and his own PC with a cable hook up that I'd never seen him touch. The best things in his apartment, however, were the things he'd gotten himself. A huge Hendrix poster, on his wall, similar to the one on my door at home. He'd bought that one for me when he'd gotten his. A tie-dyed mushroom blanket draped over his one window in the living area, shutting out the light from outside. His collection of glass and metal pipes, his bong, all displayed on the bookshelf by his computer desk, in front of the massive library he'd compounded. And his guitar, an acoustic, in it's fine hard case. He'd opened the case up once and played a little when I was over. There were notebooks in the case as well, filled with writing, music and lyrics. But I'd never been allowed to look into those. He also had a beanbag chair that I'm almost positive Lou would marry if it were legal. I'm sure he had other things in his room, but I'd never been in there.

"What do you two want to listen to?" Lou asked, finding his backpack where we'd discarded our stuff on the floor and fishing out his CD case, the only thing in his backpack. He opened it up, flipping through it, "ICP?"

"It's too early, Lou," Doug-E moaned.

"Rage?"

"Just pick something, Tambourine man," I told him impatiently. He frowned at me, pulling out a CD and practically skipping to the stereo. I shook my head, looking to Doug-E, "What did you guys do after Trix and me left?"

"Crashed," Doug-E answered, "After I dragged all their lazy asses home." Familiar rhythms pounded from the speakers set up on high shelves around the room, and Doug-E let out a loud groan, "You've got to be kidding me, Lou! We're not listening to the Monkees!"

"Dude," Lou argued, "I don't care what the man says! They _were _a real band, dude, a real band of monkeys!" Me and Doug-E exchanged blank glances before breaking into laughter. It wasn't long before Lou joined us, laughing our asses off as though life was the funniest thing, and we had no cares in the world. 'Hey, hey, we're the Monkees' pounded out of the stereo, and me and Lou sang along while Doug-E went to get us drinks. Lou was swerving around the living room, dancing drunkenly along with the music, and calling to me to join him. I told him no.

"What did you and Trix do?" Doug-E asked me, handing over a Budweiser and getting more comfortable on the couch, giving Lou an odd look. I shrugged.

"The usual," I muttered and he nodded knowingly. Unlike everyone else, he didn't jump to the conclusion I'd slept with Trix. I think he figured I was smarter than that, though I wasn't sure. He stretched, yawning loudly, and shaking his head at Lou, who had stumbled and tripped, mumbling something about a "dumbass". "You tired?" I asked, though it was obvious he was.

"I'm wiped, man," he answered, "I had to call out of work again. They're thinking of firing me, but my manager's cool. He understands."

"Cool," I conceded.

I slumped, staring at my hands. When I was bored, when I had nothing to do, my mind just drifted to her. I hated that. I hated how easily I could recall her face, her simple smile, or even simpler scowl. Her voice was a little less clear, as I hadn't spoken to her in a long time. She always eventually started sounding like my girlfriend, so I never thought about her talking. I couldn't stand associating her with my girlfriend in any way. One was day, one was night. If I confused the two, it would make me sick.

"You're in that place, again," Doug-E commented. I startled, looking to him in surprise. I had no idea what he was talking about, so I simply gave him a quizzical stare. He spread his hands out, smirking the way he did when he had something wise to divulge but wanted to play it off as nothing but a cheap comment, "You're zoning out, is all. You have to go somewhere when you zone out, and you can tell by the way someone's face looks, where they've gone. You get that far away look in your eyes…that buzz without the buzz look, and I know you've gone somewhere good. My question is this though, if it's so good, why do you look so sad when you go there? Where is this place?"

I ran my hand over my head, pulling off my hat and holding it in my lap between my hands. Doug-E was observant. I kind of liked that about him, but I didn't like it at the same time. He usually noticed things about me, picked up on things about me, that I didn't want anyone to know.

"It's nothing," I muttered, "Just…nothing…"

"You want to talk." It wasn't a question. Just another quiet observation. He shifted, leaning forward, and looking at the carpet, "But you got no one to talk to."

"I got nothing to say," I answered casually. I was scared to death that he could guess all my little secrets, all my insecurities. Maybe he already had.

"You need a journal," Doug-E told me, and it took me by surprise. It just sounded strange, even out of place. A blunt comment, an isolated piece of advice. He turned to look at me, "But you don't like to write," another quiet observation, "I can be a journal."

It was a silent offer, and his eyes bore into me, dark and prescient. My chest constricted, as though desperately trying to squeeze the last breath from my lungs. I glanced at Lou, who was still dancing, lost in the music and not even bothering with us. He wasn't listening, didn't care. I wished I was him for a moment.

If any other person had said that to me, I would have laughed at them, or made fun of them. I wouldn't of taken them seriously, would have thought they were weird or thrown it back in their face. But Doug-E was the type of person who decided for you when to take him seriously and when to laugh at him. And he'd decided, in that moment, that I was to take him seriously. I looked down at the couch. It was reddish, I didn't like the color. It reminded me of my hair. I hated my hair, it made me look goofy.

"Okay." It came out before I had time to think about it, about what it could mean. What was I agreeing to? I didn't know. He leaned back, letting out a great whoosh of a breath and looking to the ceiling.

"So," he continued, "I'm your journal, write in me. Where do you go…you know, when you zone out?"

"If I tell you something, you won't go and tell everyone else," I asked, in a low whisper. My heart was pounding. I was seriously going to take him up on the offer.

"You trust me," he stated. And I did, simple as that. I nodded, sinking into the plush of the couch.

" I don't go anywhere. I just think, sometimes."

"About?"

"People."

"Like me, and Lou, and everyone?"

I plucked at my shirt, attempting to straighten the wrinkles, casually murmuring, "Sometimes. No. A girl." He was thinking my girlfriend, I was convinced of it.

"You in love?" he asked, trying to sound as casual about it as possible. He sounded nervous, though it might have just been me.

"Not with Trix," was the first thing that came out.

"Fuck no, it better not be with Trix," he retorted, almost haughtily, then lightly, "Who?"

I blushed. I'd never told any of my friends about her. I was crossing a line somewhere, I just knew it. I dug my thumbnail into my wrist, letting it bite through skin. She'd fled my mind suddenly. I tried to recall her image, but it wouldn't conjure up. What was her name?

"I'm not in love," I finally said and my voice sounded like a quivering squeak, "I'm not. Not her." I wasn't. I couldn't be. It wasn't possible. I already spent too much time fantasizing about what I couldn't have.

"But there is a her," Doug-E concluded, looking to me with expectant eyes. He was waiting for my reaction. He wanted me to deny it, that's what that look said. He was daring me to deny it.

"Yes." I wasn't up for the challenge.

"She's your sweet spot," he said decisively. My brow drew together, confused.

"My what?"

"Your sweet spot," he repeated, "You know, the place you can go to and be happy. Where you keep all those good feelings, and all those good thoughts. Right with her, and you think about her and all those good things come to you. She's your sweet spot." I nodded. I didn't understand. And he knew it. He snorted lightly, shuffling and pulling his wallet out. He flipped it open and showed me a picture inside, "My sweet spot," he explained. I narrowed my eyes at the photo. It was of a little baby no more than a year or two old. A girl, obviously, from the red flower dress and bow somehow held on the fuzzy bald head.

"Who is she?" I asked dumbly. He'd never told me he had a sister. I figured it was only likely. His mother had recently married Harrison, and they would undoubtedly want children together.

"My daughter," he answered. I froze. My hands, my heart, my breath. It all stopped.

"Your…"

"Daughter. She's about…a year and half old now. She lives with her mother," he told me, "I'm not allowed to see her. This is the only picture I have of her. I know, I was a stupid kid."

I tried to picture Doug-E with a girl. I'd never seen him with one. I think I scrunched my nose when I tried to picture him having sex. I'd always thought of him as chaste. As innocent and parent-like as any of my friends could be. I'd always thought he was a virgin. I don't know why. But then here, slapping me in the face, was reality. He had a kid somewhere. He did indeed have sex. At least…

"You've had sex?" it was a blunt question. I automatically regretted it when he narrowed his eyes at me. I was afraid he'd call me stupid, or say my name peevishly in the manner that was supposed to denote that I was being stupid. He smiled, instead, and broke into laughter.

"Yeah, I guess I have," he said between laughs, tucking his wallet back into his pocket, "I forget sometimes…but…yeah."

I felt relieved. I didn't want him to know I was stupid. I don't know why.

He got little wrinkles, in the corners of his eyes when he laughed. Him laughing was rare. He was usually high when he laughed, though even then, it was just giggling. And when he was high, I was high. So I didn't notice those things.

"Why aren't you allowed to see her?" I asked, "I mean, she is your kid…"

"Because of my habit," he explained, and I frowned, nodding, understanding, "Her mother doesn't want her to know she has a drug addict father. I guess I don't either. Her name is Gerald. I was there, when she was born. Held her in my arms, for the first and last time, and all that shit."

"I didn't know."

"Yeah," he ran a hand over his head, "Nobody knows, except…well, _now _you."

I leaned back, not knowing what to say. Why he would tell me, of all people, about this, was hard to grasp. It seemed like a secret, like a compromise almost. I knew something about him now that no one else knew. I felt special.

"I guess that makes me a journal too," I blurted out. He grinned, and nodded.

"I guess you are."

"There is a her," I told him, in a low voice. I felt I needed to tell him about her now. In fact, I desperately wanted to. I wanted him to have a secret of mine, I wanted him to feel special like I did. "I can't…really…explain her. I've known her my whole life as a friend, as a best friend, as practically a sister, and now…as a stranger," the word tasted bitter in my mouth, if that was possible. She was coming back to me, stronger now. I could smell her, even, "She's amazing. She's pretty, and smart, and nice, and athletic and…she doesn't even know me anymore. I don't think she wants to know me. Fuck, if I were her, I wouldn't want to know me," I shifted, shuddering. It was odd talking about her, but suddenly, everything was just tumbling out of my mouth. I couldn't stop if I tried, "She's perfect, if you can even imagine that. It's a family thing, I guess. They're all fucking perfect. She can do anything.

"She hates me. I don't think she always hated me…I hope she didn't. I think she liked me before, you know, like a friend. We hung out. She's bossy, kind of like a mother, but not really. More like an older sister. But then, she's always right.

"She doesn't see me anymore. She looks at me, but she doesn't see me. I don't think that makes sense, does it?"

"Not really, no. Well…kind of."

"It doesn't matter. Like I said, she hates me." I fell back, collapsed almost. I was worn. I had never spoken so much about my thoughts or feelings on anything for a long time. Doug-E looked a little stunned.

"No wonder it makes you sad when you go to that place," he finally managed, then, quietly, he asked again, "You in love?"

My mouth felt dry. The blood was just barely running its course through my veins. My heart was staggering along. I licked my chapped lips, and rasped a weary, "Yes." I didn't want to believe it. I didn't want it to be true. But then, I never got what I wanted.

Lou fell between us, in a fit of laughter. He was slumped over the couch, his knees pressed into the carpet, staring up at us with shining eyes. He was grinning, like a child.

"What are you guys talking about?" he asked, though he didn't sound like he cared.

"Things," Doug-E answered shortly and Lou's smile faltered. I don't think he had expected a reply, but the tone in Doug-E's voice was harsh.

"Let's get wasted," I suggested.

"We were wasted no more than five hours ago," Doug-E said quietly. Practically.

"It's already been _that _long?" Lou joked, and me and him broke into laughter. When I was with them, my laughter was always more genuine, less forced, less painful. It was the closest to happiness I could get since childhood.

"You two are worse than me," Doug-E told us, lifting himself up, "I suppose you guys expect me to get out my stash and share with you." We grinned winningly at him and he shook his head, "I knew there was a real reason you two dropped by. Next time, let's just cut the crap and small chat and skip to the party, alright? No more listening to the Monkees. If I'm getting high, I'm getting high right. Pull out my Hendrix collection, I'll get the stash."

Lou rolled over the floor, knowing exactly where the much coveted Hendrix collection was. He pulled it out, flipping nonchalantly through the "greatest hits fully remastered" CDs and the original cassette tapes. He settled on one, pulling it out and popping it in the stereo. Doug-E returned with a box and a pipe, plopping it on the ground. He pulled out a little zip lock baggie filled halfway with the recognizable green stuff. It was dry, faded, like a green jade stone or corduroys. He busied himself with plucking the stems off, breaking the already crushed leaves up and diligently packing the bowl. He popped a stem in his mouth to chew on, offering me one. I accepted, placing it on my tongue. It tasted bitter, good. The THC hit my nerves, igniting them. I was excited just from that small taste, the buzz already resettling. My body knew what was coming and it was anxious and ready.

Powerfully seductive guitar riffs poured from the speakers, and Doug-E lit the pipe, taking the first hit. It was only fair, what with being his shit. He passed it to Lou, who took a long drawl before handing it to me. I paused a moment, staring blankly at the simmering red and black greens inside the bowl.

"One high to the next," I muttered under my breath. What did I ever do without it, I wondered. For a moment I recalled surfing, skating, the exhilarating rush as wind whipped past my face, barreling down a mountainside on a bike or snowboard. I put my lips on the end of the pipe, bringing the lighter to the bowl and the flames licked inside, curling around the weed, and I could hear it popping and boiling. I breathed it in, the smoke filling my mouth, burning a path down my throat, and warming my lungs. I passed it back to Doug-E, puffing out the smoke and leaning back. I wasn't even buzzing yet but my lids were drooping already. I was too young to be as tired as I was. Someone had said that to me once. I think it was my mother.

-0-0-

Reggie examined her nails, shining with clear polish. She'd never gotten the guts to paint them flashy colors, but found a simple coat of clear made them so much more beautiful, in a simple way. A lot of simple things, she had decided long ago, were beautiful. She was in her third period class, geometry. She hated geometry. Their teacher was a stiff balding man. He was greasy, leaned over his desk and stood there, straight as a board, lecturing. He would never move, the whole period. Then the bell would ring, and he would sit at his desk. Reggie wondered if, when the next class shuffled in, he would stand up again, resume that position, and start the lecture over like a recording. Or maybe he was just that way for their class, but moved and bustled around for the others.

He, the teacher, had a huge mole on his upper lip. It didn't move, when he talked. You would think it would bounce up and down with every word. But no, it stayed right where it was. There was a hair, a single black strand, sticking from the mole, curling. It was disgusting. And it fascinated most every student in the class. They would stare up at the front, as though paying careful attention, but no one was listening. They were all watching that strand of hair, and it was completely still.

Reggie folded her legs under her chair, sighing and gazing out the window. A paper fell on her desk, and she looked at it, startled. She glanced around, seeing Sam in the front row, studiously taking notes. It was their only class together. She unfolded the paper, glancing it over.

'Sorry I didn't catch you this morning', it read. Reggie furrowed her brow at it. What did that mean, she wondered. Her eyes widened in realization. They were supposed to meet that morning. She'd forgotten. She quickly scribbled a 'no big deal. It's cool' response and passed it back up. She tried to push thoughts of how it should have been a big deal, and more importantly, a deal she didn't completely forget about, from her mind. She chewed her upper lip, tapping her pen on the open notebook in front of her with half-notes scrawled atop the thin, blue, college-ruled lines. She glanced out the window. She could see the field from where she sat. The yellow partially dead grass, the bleachers, the high back chain-linked fence.

He'd looked ill. Maurice. She scrunched her nose involuntarily. It was still odd for her, to refer to him by his first name, when she'd known him as 'Twister' for so long. He still had the natural tan, but he seemed paler somehow. Almost like a ghost, like he wasn't even there. He had pronounced bags under his eyes, somewhat like the ones a person got from lack of sleep. His eyes used to be clear, a soft brown with an underlying green tone. Reggie remembered them, because they were so unusual. Everything about him had been unusual, from his quirky personality right down to his odd looks. The light orange hair, almost like a burnt sunset. His freckles, dabbled across his cheeks and shoulders. You could play connect-the-dots with the freckles on his back. She had once, tracing a finger over them, when he was napping on the beach. She'd found a star, a dog, a crab, a smiley face. They'd been alone. Otto riding the waves with their father, Raymundo. Sam searching the tide pools with their friend, Tito, though she couldn't remember what for. She blinked away the memory.

That morning had been strange. Reggie couldn't remember the last time she'd seen Maurice. He looked different, odder every time she saw him those days. Less familiar. He still wore the hat, but those clear eyes were foggy, distant now. He was lean. Thinner, taller, sleeker. Colder. His hands stood out in her memory. They'd been small, when he was a child, kind of chubby, like children's hands are. But now his fingers were long, spindly and she could see the tendons as he moved them. His knuckles, a few of them, were split and covered with dark black scabs. It just struck her, like an epiphany, he wasn't a child anymore. There was the proof, he no longer had child's hands. He'd been wearing pants and a sweatshirt, again. She didn't know what his arms and legs looked like now. It was probably just curiosity, but she wanted to. There was a time when she knew his body so well, having grown up surfing with him.

Reggie blushed. She remembered what his skin felt like that day on the beach, and her fingertips tingled at the recollected touch. Soft, warm, smooth, but not perfectly so. There were slight bumps, rough patches, sand. He had been so simple. Simply a boy, stretched over a towel, sleeping soundly. Beautiful. Like so many other simple things. Boys aren't supposed to be beautiful, she'd told herself. She'd laid down, falling asleep next to him, blanketed in sunlight, fingers drawing stars on his skin.

She had woken up later in the night, when lips had brushed against hers. Her first kiss.

"Miss Rocket." Impatience lined the tone of that voice, and Reggie startled. The class was staring at her. How long had the teacher been calling her name? A plump boy was standing at the front of the class, his black licorice eyes boring into her. The teacher was holding a small rectangular white paper, a note from the office. He flicked it out towards her, his body immobile, only his hand from his wrist shook from the motion.

Reggie knew her cheeks were red. She got up, making her way to the front, taking the paper and flashing her eyes over it, skimming it briefly.

"Prom court coordination," the teacher explained, and Reggie felt her head move up and down in a nod. She saw Sam shift in his chair, one of his brows arched in confusion. Her heart caught and she felt her cheeks flush with heat.

Moments before, Reggie realized, she'd been recalling how beautiful she thought another boy was. All the while, Sam had been sitting in the front row, feeling badly for ditching her at an appointed meeting she had completely forgotten about as it was. She felt guilty. He was cute, she told herself. He still had crew cut blonde hair, stained on the top from the sun. He was sunburned at the moment, his cheeks, nose, and forehead a deep red, giving him a permanent blush. It was peeling slightly, though nothing compared to his shoulders, she knew. He poured on the sun block, SPF 80 or higher, but it didn't help. It always washed off after the long sessions they spent in the ocean water, and he ended up scorched from the sun's glare. And he just couldn't seem to tan. His black-rimmed glasses framed his face overbearingly, calling attention away from his soft blue eyes. He was still small in stature, at least half an inch to an inch shorter than Reggie, and still stocky. He gave up on claiming the soft pudgy weight as baby fat, roughly demeaning himself as overweight. It wasn't true, he was in fairly good shape, just big-boned. His thin lips were constantly drawn into a shy smile, and he flustered easily. His hands were rounded, not rigid and sharp like Maurice's had been. His face was circular, his eyes large and round, made bug-ish from his thick lenses. He was wearing loose khakis, and a crisp white and yellow striped shirt with a collar. He had a puka shell necklace on and sandals. Hanging around the Rocket siblings so long had affected his style a great deal, Reggie realized.

"Should I go now?" Reggie asked, and the teacher blinked at her.

"Please do," he replied. She looked back to her things scattered on her desk and her backpack on the floor tucked halfway under her chair.

"Should I take my stuff?" she looked to the teacher, then the office messenger, who nodded. She went to gather her things, shoving them in her pack and slinging it over her shoulders. She followed the office messenger out the door, forgetting she'd wanted to glance back to Sam. She could feel his eyes watching her, like all the others in the class. Eyes. He had been watching her. Maurice. With those withdrawn, soft, rusted copper eyes that made her heart race. She wished he wouldn't look at her. She hated it when he did. But at the same time, she always silently pleaded him to.

* * *

End A/N: A few things...please do not judge Doug-E too harshly. I'm quite fond of his character, and Lou's as well. This chapter kind of goes a bit more into Twister's new friendships and how his relationships with everyone has changed, as well as going into the feelings he has for Reggie. Um...yeah, but you all read the chapter, so what am i going on about...?

One small sidenote, a bit of trivia actually: Did you know that the Monkees toured with Jimmy Hendrix in 1967? He did eight shows with them, and was even once booed off stage because the crowd wanted the Monkees. Funny how pop culture works. I thought it was a nice switch, in this chapter, Doug-E kicking the Monkees off the stereo for Hendrix. Both totally ROCK in my book, though! And, in my opinion, somewhere along the way, the Monkees did turn into a real band. Fuck what everybody else says. In the end, they played their own instruments, wrote and produced some of their own songs, and they'd always sang them.

By the way, Smashmouth ruined I'm A Believer.

And that's all from me. Please excuse any grammatical and typing errors. _**REVIEW **_IF YOU ROCK!

**AND**, Thanks for Reading.


	4. To Hurt Them

A/N: I don't even know what I'm doing anymore...

Thanks for the reviews guys: WarinaKinomoto, xxBlueFire920xx, Alex, UnlikelytoBearIt, salsipuedes, MissConfused - sorry, it's late and I'm tired so I can't leave nice long messages, but you guys all rock and I loved every single one of your reviews.

ENJOY!

* * *

Chapter 4: To Hurt Them

_  
Push me again, This is the end  
Skin against skin, blood and bone  
You're all by yourself but you're not alone  
You wanted in, now you're here  
Driven by hate, consumed by fear  
Let the bodies hit the floor _

- Drowning Pool, "Bodies"

Otto lay back on the cafeteria table bench. It was lunch time. People around were talking loudly, laughing, arguing, chatting, joking, jovial. He was daydreaming about making the field hockey team. His dreadlocks had pressed around his face, the frizzy tangles itchy against his skin. He was easily recognized by those dreadlocks, and verily admired for them. Other kids commented on how cool they were, how their parents would never let them wear their hair in a similar style. He would just nod, tugging on one lock nervously. He'd had them since he was a kid, they weren't a big deal. His sunglasses pressed against the bridge of his nose, pinching the flesh. He closed his eyes, smelling the noxious fumes of the cafeteria; food and body odor from the large mass of students. He wished he was outside.

Jamal rapped a finger against Otto's forehead, and the boy's eyes snapped open. Jamal was leaning over him curiously, staring down into the other boy's face with slight concern and partial interest. Jamal was a good guy, Otto ascertained. He was from Los Angeles, originally, and the small town flavor of Ocean Shores was suffocating for him. He liked action, adventure, the city style attitude. He wore big clothes and talked loudly, using a whole different type of slang that caught everyone's attention. He was just as flashy as Otto could be, and Otto was attracted to that. They clicked. They were best friends, since they'd met the day Jamal moved in and showed up in Otto's homeroom class. Well, as close to being best friends as Otto would allow. Otto didn't connect with people the way he once had. He didn't let people near enough to him, keeping them arms length distance.

"Yo, whatcha doin', homeboy?" Jamal asked, and Otto rolled off his back into a sitting position. He leaned into a slouch, elbows pressed onto the table, back curled.

"I have to make that team," Otto declared, "I know I'll make it. Of course I'll make it, but I want it now."

"Why?"

"Why what? Why not?" Otto growled softly. Eddie was sitting across from them, eating his home brought sandwich. He made a soft chuckling noise and the other two boys turned to him. He shrugged, biting into the white bread once more.

Eddie, once known as the Prince of the Netherworld, had outgrown the cape and mask sometime in the past when the teasing became too much. He'd devoted himself to sports, and started hanging around Otto a great deal. He was still lanky, thin, awkwardly bowlegged. He had a wide smile, and a crisp, small, pointed nose. His hair was straight, brushed across his scalp, and his face was blanched pale with slight color from the sun. He was wearing a tee-shirt, plain blue, and long blue jeans curled at the cuffs. He talked in a low whisper often times, muttering things to his friends in an offhand manner. He wasn't so much shy as an introvert. He had nothing to say, so he didn't bother wasting anyone's time with useless meanderings. He made most other kids nervous. He made Jamal nervous.

"Didn't you see that team? How cool they all were?" Otto pressed, "I bet they're worshipped by every kid in that school."

"I guess," Jamal muttered, "But you'd probably have to give up street hockey."

"It's lame now, anyways," Otto retorted, "It's baby stuff. Field hockey is an adult sport, totally. And scholarships, man, if I get into college…"

"Huge if," Jamal put in, and Otto scowled, "My bad. Couldn't help myself."

"_When _I get into college," Otto went on, "My dad won't have to worry about paying for everything. It'll be cool. I'll have my pick of any school…or better, talent scouts usually go to high school games like that, not little junior league street hockey games. I could turn pro by my senior year, no problem-o."

"You seem confident," Eddie remarked, "But I saw some of those other boys out there. The scouts may be more interested in Trent, or even Lars." He paused, swallowing hard. Otto swiveled to lay back down and Jamal looked in confusion between the two. His eyes went wide, suddenly reminded of that morning. They fell silent. The loudness of everyone around them pounding in their ears.

Josh made his way through the crowd, weaving through people and almost sitting on Otto. He'd seen the Rocket boy, but bent down jokingly anyways. He laughed, before climbing over the table to sit next to Eddie, who regarded him with a dark glower. Otto sneered, lifting himself slightly.

Josh was obnoxious, having moved to Ocean Shores a long time before. Back when Maurice was still Twister and Sam was still the Squid. Otto had hated him. And as he sat there, laughing uproariously at his own joke, Otto realized he still hated him. Josh brayed like a donkey, and constantly changed with the trends. He was currently wearing his hair long, spiked with gel. It was bleached at the ends. He had large steel balls beaded around his neck, several plastic bangles wrapped around his wrists, a 'Quiksilver' shirt on, and large jeans that spilled down far enough to reveal his plaid boxers. He looked too clean, too prim and proper to be the skater he was attempting to portray himself as. He had dark circles under his eyes, and was short and thickly thin. He was a person to hang with, to play sports with. That was the only reason Otto tolerated the nuisance. And Jamal liked him.

"Where you been?" Jamal asked, and Josh smirked.

"Talking to ladies," he answered slyly, "But those cheerleaders, at the high school, they were total foxes. Like…Reggie…"

"Shut up," Otto spat. Josh was looking to strike a nerve. He liked to stir up trouble, to get Otto's blood boiling. Not to mention lately he'd been noticing Reggie's subtle changes in appearance. He would come over to the Rocket house more often those days, under the guise of coming to see Otto. Most times he'd show up when he knew Otto wasn't even there. Just to see Reggie, even if it was a moment, annoying her at the door. Josh laughed again.

"Touchy, touchy," he commented. He jerked forward, suddenly, and turned, a few boys passing them by. One had shoved their elbow into his back, between his shoulder blades. The boy's upper lip curled wickedly and Otto felt the hair on his arms stand on end.

"Watch your back, poser," the boy snarled, falling in behind his friends, who laughed. Josh looked to the table in front of him, silently. All evidence of a smile was gone.

"What was that about?" Eddie questioned. Otto's eyes followed the group of boys menacingly. He recognized one, a statuesque blond, by the name of Jordan, the one who'd run into Josh. Two were in Otto's math class, Phil and Marco, both brunetts with light complexions. And then Dylan, with rounded features and a set grin. They were class clowns, loud and rambunctious. Skaters. Potheads.

"They're just being jerks," Otto said, "Forget about 'em." The others nodded, but Josh turned to glance them briefly. The boys were staring him down, joking with one another, and shooting him dark glares.

-0-0-

Sam jogged his way down the steps at the front of the high school as the final bell resounded in his ear. He held in his hand the finished product. A compact disc, burned that afternoon. The fruit of his, Oliver's, Martin's, and Yeni's labor. It would be shown in a couple days for their computer class. They would be graded on it, and it screamed easy "A". Then, their teacher, would ship it off to the Gaming Communities' RPG Making Competition for evaluation and qualification. Sam smiled. He'd never worked harder on anything.

Reggie stood in the distance, leaning against the flag pool chatting with Sherry. Sam paused. Sherry hadn't changed much in appearance over the years. She was shorter than Reggie, her hair had grown out somewhat, still blonde and wavy. It was just below her ears now, spilling in her face every now and then as she laughed or spoke. She had those large eyes, gray. But they weren't a dull granite gray, remarkably more silver than anything. They shined, glistened even, in both sunlight and moonlight. And they were always cheerful, always happy to see Sam. She had a flat stomach, small hips, slight shoulders, and a well rounded chest. Her usual hoop earrings dangled against her pale neck, and there was a mole, right below her left ear. When she was nervous, she would lift her hand up to pull on the earring, and her pinky would come to rest on that mole. Sam had noticed that sometime before, during one of those rare times when her and him were talking alone at the Shore Shack waiting for Reggie to show. She was wearing cut off shorts, down to her knees and frayed at the end, pure white tennis shoes and a large button down shirt, striped red. There was a white tank top underneath

Butterflies fluttered in Sam's stomach, and he felt sick. He always did when he saw Sherry and he was beginning to wonder if there was something wrong with him. He felt more than comfortable around Reggie. Reggie. That was right. He glanced in the other girl's direction. She'd been voted for prom court, and it was obvious why. She was beautiful. Beach bronzed, with strong muscles stretched along her back and smooth legs. Sam knew he would never be voted for Prom court, or homecoming court, or anything. Next to her, he knew, he looked less. He took a deep breath, flickering another look at Sherry, and his heart skipped a beat. He didn't know if he could join them with her standing there. The closer he got to her, the stranger he felt. But Reggie was there, he assured himself, everything would be fine.

Sam stepped forward and was suddenly rammed into. He startled, stumbling and groaning. His shoulder hurt.

"Watch where you're going," Sam cried, without thinking. It was such a forceful blow, almost like being hit by a car. He squeezed his eyes shut, glancing Reggie and Sherry looking his direction.

The tall boy stopped, turning slightly and Sam reeled on him.

"What is your problem? It's not like I'm even moving!" he shouted, then bit his tongue so hard it drew blood. The hair was the first thing he noticed. Orange, not bright orange, just shocking to see. It was a strange thing to notice, yes, but a hat usually covered that redhead. Freckles, and then the chapped lips, flashing teeth beneath, white in a peevish snarl. Sam couldn't bring himself to look in those eyes. Smoke flitted into his face, and he glanced up. Two other boys were there. One that looked withdrawn and amused, and the other one from the high school, a boy named Steve. He was the one blowing the smoke, a cigarette held in his fingers.

"You got a problem?" Steve seethed. Sam lowered his eyes, looking helplessly to the girls, who watched the interaction closely. He shook his head.

"Forget him," a voice muttered, strongly Hispanic. Sam dared to glance up, to study that face he'd known so well before. Those eyes, cold and exacting, once light and happy, looked into the distance, scouring the crowd. Sam noticed how they stopped momentarily in the direction of Reggie and Sherry, before flickering back to the other two boys. "Where the fuck is Mike?" Sam had never gotten used to hearing that boy swear. It sounded surreal, yet, so casual. He turned, slipping away as the three boys broke into whispered mumblings.

Sam all but ran to the girls, taking a deep breath when he reached them. Sherry was studying him, but Reggie was looking elsewhere, towards the direction Sam had come. He didn't know what she was staring at and he didn't dwell on it, his heart pounding from the unexpected interection.

"After this morning," Sherry was saying, "I'm surprised he came back around here."

"What happened this morning?" Sam questioned, looking to Reggie. Her eyes went downcast, she was blushing. Sherry took a deep breath, her eyes widening.

"Oh my god," she squealed, grabbing on to Sam's arm and he flustered, "You didn't hear?" She dragged him away, down the street, before he could say anymore, quickly regaling him with the events of that morning. Reggie trailed back slightly, brushing strands of hair from her face and following unsteadily.

-0-0-

I woke up on Doug-E's leather couch. Music was still playing, Nirvana now. I was laying on my belly, my sweatshirt tangled around my body. I looked out at the room, the multi-colors bright like fresh sunlight against my tired eyes. I could hear Doug-E and Lou in the kitchen, they sounded like they were getting food. My stomach growled, as though suddenly reminded that it needed to eat as well. I pulled myself up, noticing my shoes discarded off the side of the couch. I padded into the kitchen where snacks were spread out. Lou and Doug-E were talking, laughing. I ran my hand over my head. The red hair bristled against my palm, rough.

"Where's my hat?" I asked. Doug-E shrugged, and Lou broke into giggles. I shook my head, grabbing a bag of potato chips, Lays, and stuffed a handful in my mouth. I opened the refrigerator, stocked with sodas, various brands of alcohol, and a jar of pickles shoved in the back. I took a Budweiser, clicking it open and guzzling half the can down before grabbing the pickle jar.

"You drool," Lou commented, and I raised an eyebrow his direction, then wiped the back of my hand over the dribble on my chin. I shrugged again, and the two boys broke into more laughter.

"What time is it?" I asked, popping open the jar and fishing one of the wrinkled green preserved vegetables out. I took a bite, and the strong salty juice flecked from my mouth and sank into my tongue. I made a face, but continued eating it.

"Almost one," Doug-E answered, "Why? You got a hot date?"

"With lilac," Lou threw in, and I frowned, tossing the rest of the pickle in the sink and leaving the jar on the counter. I swallowed more of the beer, tentatively sipping it now. To say it had a taste would be to give it too much credit. It was bitter, and that was about it. I liked it because it was disgusting and made me sick.

"No," I replied, between gritted teeth, "But my fist does…with that little shit's face." Doug-E frowned, leaning back against the counter.

"What are you talking about?"

"We're gonna put the shake down on the little turd that stole Maurice's CDs," Lou explained, and I fidgeted under Doug-E's narrow gaze. He didn't look happy.

"Don't bother trying to feed us bullshit about how we shouldn't go through with it," I told him, and he shifted, jutting his chin out, "It's going down. I'm pounding that guy, there's nothing you can do to change my mind."

"Fine, whatever. Get yourself in trouble. Don't expect me to be there to watch your back, and pull you off the guy when you get in over your head," Doug-E said, and I looked down at the tile.

"I'm not gonna," I spat, "I'm just teaching him a lesson. We better get going, Lou, if we're gonna meet Steve and Mike. Now where the fuck is my hat?"

"I'll find it later," Doug-E muttered, then bitingly, "You guys wouldn't want to be late." I could feel the heat of his stare my direction. He wanted to say more, but for some odd reason, he held his tongue. I ignored it, grabbing my shoes and pulling them on. Lou and I took off out the door.

We made our ways towards the high school, which was a lengthy distance from Doug-E's, finding Steve standing at the corner across from the school smoking. He looked startled in my direction, offering Lou and I cigarettes. Lou took one, slipping it behind his ear.

"You know I don't smoke," I told him evenly and Steve shrugged, shoving the pack back into his pocket.

"I forgot you were such a good little boy," he joked. I flinched, motioning towards the high school and marching forward. They fell in step behind me. "I'm surprised you came back, after this morning…" Steve started, trailing off when I gave him a puzzled look. I'd forgotten about what had happened, but it came back to me in a moment. I remembered the anger, the embarrassment, and strode forward more determinedly because of it.

"Like that would fucking stop me from coming here," I snapped. The crowd was heavy, and I lowered my head, pushing my way through. Lars had no right to treat me that way, I decided. He didn't care about me, he just liked to make my life miserable. He liked to shove me around, in front of his and my friends, and show them he was boss. Enraged, I shoved all of my weight against a short kid in my path. He stumbled away and I kept walking.

"Watch where you're going," he called after me, "What's your problem? It's not like I'm even moving!" I spun on him, and stepped back, realizing I knew the voice. But somehow it sounded foreign to me. Blond hair, black-rimmed glasses. Sam.

Steve came up beside me, taking the cigarette from his mouth and blowing a stream of smoke in Sam's face. He leered forward, trying to appear impressive, but coming off as nothing more than a punk.

"You got a problem?" he demanded, clacking his teeth together. Sam was shaken, obviously, rubbing his shoulder where I'd hit him. He was staring at the ground, shooting looks around at the people surrounding us, bustling by. He fidgeted.

"Forget him," I told Steve, and forced myself to follow suit. I looked about the crowd, trying to remember why I'd come up there. Trying not to look at Sam. I was shaking, and I shoved my hands in my pockets, as they were visibly trembling. I need to act cool, I told myself.

I didn't hate Sam. He hadn't really done anything to me. Things just got complicated, and he simply got thrown in with my old life that I wanted no part of. I guess I sort of saw him as my replacement. He replaced me for Otto and her. Speaking of which…

I could spot her anywhere. She was one of those people that stands out, like a light shined over her head. She was with someone, but I didn't really look to see who. I was in love with her, I reminded myself with an awesome ache in my chest. She was looking in our direction, looking at me. I wanted to return the stare, to hold it, to smile or something. What was I doing there? Why was I at the high school?

Mike. It rang in my ears, the name. I forced my eyes back to Steve and Lou, forced myself to forget her, to forget Sam, and to remember what my purpose for being there was.

"Where the fuck is Mike?" I asked, sounding angrier than I actually was. I was more annoyed, than anything, and just at myself. Everything was getting to me that day. Nothing got to me. But suddenly I was on edge, my hair was standing on end. I couldn't move or breath without feeling as though everything was pressed against me. Like someone was standing on my chest, evenly applying more and more pressure until I couldn't breath any longer.

I noticed Sam was leaving. I didn't want to notice. He was walking towards her and Sherry. It was Sherry standing with her, I realized. They talked, looking my way. They were talking about me, I knew it. You can always tell when someone's talking about you.

"He may be in detention," Steve said, balancing the cigarette from the side of his mouth. I scowled, muttering a "fuck". Lou smiled half-heartedly at me. "It's no big deal," Steve assured me, "Jordan says that Dylan and Ralph are gonna be there."

"Those two are fucking punks. They're fucking wusses," I muttered, "I needed Mike, he fucking let me the fuck down. The fucking…"

"Chill out, Maurice," Lou told me, putting an arm over my shoulders, "Like the Stones said, 'You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometime you just might find, you get what you need.' Dylan and Ralph _are _wusses, but you got me and Steve. We got your back, loco dude. Those two can just be tanks, man, get their asses beat down in the line of duty protecting us."

"Just don't tell _them _that, huh?" Steve chuckled, then frowned, holding his cigarette between his teeth and tongue in his mouth, bending slightly. He lifted a shiny disc off the ground, holding it out for Lou and me to see. "What's this?" he asked to no one in particular. I shrugged and Lou glanced over his shoulder.

"Must've belonged to that bug-eyed kid," he guessed and I shrugged again, shoving my hands deeper in my pockets, but keeping my mouth shut. Steve handed it over to Lou, who examined it, before popping it in his CD player and leaving it there, "Maybe I'll check it out later, see if it has any cool tunes on it."

"Not all CDs play music," I pointed out and Steve removed the cigarette from his mouth and bellowed out a thin line of smoke. Lou looked confused. A non-music playing CD, how was that possible? And who would want one?

"_Maurice_!"

"Shit," I muttered, cringing. Steve snickered, and Lou made a humorous face. I turned slightly, eyeing my girlfriend as she half-ran down the steps to stop in front of us. She put a hand on her hip. She was wearing my Independent sweatshirt. I knew it would turn up somewhere. She'd fixed her make-up. Her lipstick was red, making her mouth look like a bloody gash on her face. She'd changed into a low-cut skirt, my sweatshirt engulfing her body and covering the skirt for the most part, making it look like it was the only thing she was wearing. She'd rolled the sleeves up and I could see a few plastic bangles and a friendship bracelet around her wrists, and a watch with a broken band. She was frowning at me.

"You weren't here this morning. What the fuck happened to meeting me?" she demanded. I saw two other girls come up behind her. Mike's girlfriend and some bitch I didn't like, my girlfriend's best friend. We called her Cheerios. She would laugh, when we did. She didn't get that we wanted her to go. Other kids, from the high school, were staring at us curiously.

"You said meet you at the school, you didn't say when," I shot back. I left out the part that I had decided I didn't want to see her that day. No use making a scene, I figured. She crossed her arms over her chest. Apparently she thought differently.

"That's real fucking nice of you," she spat, "I wait around and you never show up and your excuse is you didn't know what time I wanted you to come."

"Can we talk about this later? I got shit to deal with," I hissed, stepping up towards her.

"I don't care what kind of shit you have to deal with. I want to talk about this now," she snarled, and my jaw stiffened. I saw Lou look away, trying not to appear as though he was paying attention, and Steve covered a snicker. Have I mentioned that I hate him? "After your performance this morning," my girlfriend went on, and a few of the kids around us looked rather intrigued by whatever meaning could be behind that phrase, "And your dick attitude, I'm supposed to wait and deal? You're always fucking ditching me and I'm fucking sick and tired of it!"

"Look, Trix, will you just shut up," I snapped, "I don't need you to bitch at me right now, alright? I got more important things to worry about. Shit." I turned away, shaking my head, and starting towards the street. We had at least fifteen minutes to get to the middle school, it was about five to ten minutes away. I didn't want to miss my window of opportunity, "I don't have time to wait for Mike. Let's go guys."

"Fuck you, Maurice," I heard my girlfriend stammer. She was trying to save face, but she wasn't sure what to say. She could tell I was angry, that I didn't have a lot of patience at that point in time, and that I wasn't taking shit that day. She didn't want to piss me off more, but she couldn't stand there gaping and taking my disregard of her. She didn't press the matter further, as Lou, Steve, and I made our way from the high school.

-0-0-

Josh shouldered his backpack, messing with his bike chain and shuffling slightly. He nodded to Otto and Jamal, who were making their ways over. They'd all decided to head back over to the high school together, to watch the Sharks scrimmage. The bike rack was nearly empty of people. Few kids rode their bikes to school those days. Josh could see Otto was carrying a skateboard, and Jamal only had his legs for transportation. He unlocked his bike, pulling it from the rack and pushing it towards his friends.

"Where's Eddie?" Josh asked of the other two boys. Jamal shrugged.

"He said he had to go home and help his parents at their shop," Otto explained, "Which reminds me, we have to do this real quick, because I have to help my dad out with the dinner rush at the Shack. He needs me there at four, to set up."

"Major bummer, dude," Josh conceded, strutting forward. He couldn't understand how Otto put up with helping out at the Shack. But then, Otto did a lot of things that Josh didn't understand. Like for instance, he refused to give up one sport to focus on another. Otto had too many passions, too many focuses, and sure he was good at all of them, but if Josh was told he could rule at one thing than he would put his whole self into it. But then, Josh had no real passions. Except, perhaps, staying in the popular crowd.

They walked side by side, suddenly feeling the pressure of being alone. Three boys, walking from the bike rack, laughing and joking with one another, talking about this and that. Jamal saw them first, falling silent, and nudging the others to notice. A group of five or so boys standing, leaning on the brick wall of the school, pressed around the three outsiders. They glowered at them, smirks playing on their lips. They knew something the other three boys didn't. Otto persisted forward, and his two friends pressed close to him as though he were a shield or a parent. They fell silent, solemn, hoping that whatever those boys were up to had nothing to do with them.

Otto passed through first, Jamal behind. A boy reached forward, stopping Josh from going further, and he made a slight gasping sound that brought his two friends to a halt. They turned as the other boys closed around. Otto didn't recognize the boy that's outstretched arm held Josh back, but he saw Jordan in the crowd, Dylan, Ralph, and a couple other boys that looked familiar. His hair prickled on his neck. He recognized this setup, though he'd never seen it before. This was a "jump". His heart thudded in his chest. He'd seen fights before, but these kinds, they involved a group pounding on an individual. Otto couldn't stand that.

"Let him go," he seethed and the restrainer glanced over his shoulder to Otto with a sneer.

"Like hell. We got business," the boy replied, "Get lost."

"Business?" Josh ached, "I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't done anything to you…fuck, I don't even know you…"

"I didn't mean me," the boy snapped, "You're business ain't with me, it's with him."

The boys separated at one end, stepping aside, parting like the great sea, and Otto scowled upon seeing the redheaded boy sitting on the pavement. The boy lifted himself, almost wearily, taking the charms dangling at his neck, a shark's tooth and, ironically, a golden cross, and slipping them into his shirt as he strode forward, head down. Otto could see Josh squirming, but the other boy didn't relent his grasp. Josh gulped, licking his lips feverishly, trying to remember when he'd wronged the tall boy advancing on him with even strides.

"I'm sorry," he said immediately, without thinking, his voice a trembling quaver.

"No, you're not," was the short reply, airy, brusque with a pronounced accent, "Let him go, Steve." The boy, the restrainer, Steve, shoved Josh away, relinquishing his hold. Josh stumbled, caught his balance, shied away to find the other boys had enclosed him in with the redhead.

"What the fuck is this about?" Jamal questioned, awed, "Isn't that the boy that…this morning?"

"You're a legend, Maurice," Steve joked, receiving a short, very disgruntled glance. Otto remembered when that boy, who now stalked around Josh as though a lion surveying its prey, would cringe at the mention of his name. Now, a small almost sadistic smirk played on his lips. He paused, straightened, and gave Josh a reproving once over. Josh tried to play it off, tried to appear calm, composed. Trying to act as though the force standing before him did not scare him shitless. He chuckled even, awkwardly, nervous, short gasps almost.

"What…are you going to pound me senseless now?" he attempted to sound unafraid, but that quick apology shadowed by his quivering form and trembling voice, denoted otherwise, "I'm oh-so afraid. Sure, you're all tough with your friends at your back. Man, you're just chicken-shit. I'm shaking in my boxers here, man, I really am. Dude, you couldn't take me without your posse…" The other boy's lip curled up in a menacing sneer.

"It's just you and me, bro," he hissed. Josh lost his footing momentarily, and then he got a gleeful expression on his face.

"Oh," he chuckled, "So you really are stupid enough to try and take me on by yourself."

Their audience held its breath.

Without warning, the boy moved forward fluidly, so gracefully it didn't appear sudden or random, or even an act of anger. With all the force of a bullet exploding from the lip of a gun, his fist connected with Josh's gut. Immediately, Josh collapsed within himself, but the other boy did not lose momentum, grabbing him up by the scruff of his shirt and slamming a fist into his face incessantly. Josh feebly attempted to struggle from the iron grasp, and the boys to the sidelines only offered encouraging chants of "fight, fight", and "get 'em Maurice". Some of the boys held Josh's friends away. Otto struggled against the tight hold of Steve and an offset young man with a lopsided grin. Jamal had less enthusiasm, seemingly entranced by the display of violence before him. It was as though watching a car wreck, the beauty and grotesque-ness of the scene that played in front of his eyes was so horrible he couldn't peel his eyes off it.

Josh broke free of his attacker's grasp, stumbling backwards into the brick wall. Blood had trickled down from his nose and lip, covering his mouth and chin. He wiped at it, tears flooding his eyes as he tried to remain stable and standing. The other boy seemed to relent momentarily. His knuckles were bruised, some were split from connecting on jagged edges like teeth. Not all the blood on his hands were Josh's. And then he moved forward again, his moves more calculated, less like an enraged beast, more thought out. One slammed into Josh's stomach, chest, jaw, over, under, cross-punch, jab, upper cut. Josh returned the attack with a few failed swings of his own. One shaky fist connected across the other boy's cheek, and was received with an onslaught of more passionate, fiery, punches. Finally he bowled into Josh, toppling him over. He pinned Josh to the ground, straddling his chest, knees firmly holding his arms to the pavement. What seemed wild fists slammed again and again into Josh's face, and the young man cried out for help or mercy or anything…until his words became gargled moans of pain. The jeers of the crowd died somewhat, as the on looking boys began to realize, he was going to kill Josh.

And then, in the distance, a blearing howl, like a woman screaming, hummed. It grew closer, and closer. Louder and louder. The boys dispersed, easily identifying the sirens. Someone had called the cops. In the rush, Otto and Jamal tried to struggle through to their friend. Either blinded by some undefined fury, or simply not caring, the antagonist seemed unfazed by the potential threat of arriving police. He continued, almost methodically, in his severe pounding of Josh. It wasn't until arms wrapped about him, and a warm body smelling of marijuana and musty sweat, tugged at him, that he started to awaken from his seeming trance.

"Come on, Maurice," a voice cut harshly into his directed assault, "The 5-oh are coming, we got to go! Come on!"

It was an obvious struggle, to pull himself off Josh, but the boy managed to fight the urge to continue the pounding. He stumbled off with the boy who had long brown hair knotted and stringy with grease. Otto fell to Josh's side, spewing a string of curse words under his breath. He pulled himself up, beginning after the retreating Maurice, when Jamal grabbed a hold of him.

"Let 'em go, man," Jamal whispered, "We got to stay with Josh. He looks real bad. Those guys'll get what's coming to them, but we got to stay with Josh…"

"They're going to fucking pay for this harshness," Otto seethed, "That lame-o asshole is going to fucking pay…"

"Just chill, Otto," Jamal soothed, "Just chill. It's all good." Otto shook his head, tugging stubbornly from Jamal's grasp and falling in a kneel beside Josh. The boy looked like mush, really. His face, neck, hands, arms, and the whole front of his shirt was covered in blood and raw flesh. He looked like a fish, his eyes fluttering open and closed, they were glazed and seemed unfocused. It was amazing he still maintained consciousness after the beating. Otto concluded that he possibly had a concussion. From the unfocused way his eyes looked out. He also assumed Josh harbored a few broken bones, from the twisted way he lay, and that he was probably in shock from the obvious blood loss and undoubtedly immense pain. The sirens grew ever nearer, and they were suddenly basked in red and blue lights.

"What did you do, man, to piss that kid off like that?" Jamal had to ask. Josh shook his head as best he could manage. But Otto just clenched his jaw and balled his fist, frustrated and feeling helpless. In all honesty, he wasn't so concerned with Josh as furious with Maurice. The attack had been vicious, and as far as Otto was concerned, unprovoked. That lame-o, in his opinion, needed to be severely punished, and, in Otto's book, was beyond forgiveness.

* * *

END A/N: I hated this chapter. Not because of what happens in it, but because of the writing. I don't think the level of writing quality was up to par...I also hate writing fight scenes. They're SO HARD! But it was a necessary scene to the rest of the story so...I had to do it.

Please excuse any grammatical and typing errors. REVIEWs with lots of nice wonderful feedback of all kinds are very much appreciated, and anticipated, and worshipped like Cool Whip and Chedder Jack Cheeze-its.

Thanks for reading. Rock out, I want sleep and pie.


	5. Without Reason

A/N: This has got to be the longest chapter I've ever written..._ever_. Somewhere around 13000 words...wow. Well, no that's not true. Some of my chapters for Killing the Daisies (Recess fic) were close to 20000 words long, had to split them into two pieces. Anyways...this chapter, yay! I hope this tides you people over for ahile while I slip off and work on some other shit.

Thank you, Reviewers...you rock, oh so totally:

salsipuedes: Thanks! I still don't like that chapter...but like I said, it was necessary. Old Japanese movies are funny. I was watching one about these samurai dudes on the IFC channel...I couldn't stop laughing. And it was supposed to be a serious film! Oh well. Them Japanese people are fucking crazy (author happens to be japanese herself...) The mysterious disc will be explained later, and it's a bit far from the end. Oh, and my Maurice is a pretty bad mother fucker. Otto's pissed, but he'd be hard pressed as it is to whomp his ass. That's not to say, he won't face the consequences of his actions soon enough.

UNLIKELYTOBEARIT: haha...very funny. Yes, I updated. I do that every now and then. Unless you don't want me to...thanks for loving this story. I'm quite fond of it myself. And wouldn't it be nice if all the people in the world who needed some butt kicking actually got that butt kicking? Ah...what a wonderful world we'd live in...I'm in need of a butt kicking myself, actually...heheh...

NewFan: Thanks! I'm pretty satisfied with my writing style in this story too...not entirely, it needs major tweaking in some areas, but still...ah...yeah, Maurice as a druggie is interesting to me as well. There's just something about his character in the series, how naive and innocent he seems, that just makes writer's like me want to get our hands on him and screw him up so fucking much. And that we do. Yup. That we do...ahem. HERE'S MORE!

Alex: Thank you for your praise! I know what you mean, about the fight seeming weird. It was weird for me to write it...mostly because I'm bad at writing fight scenes, but also because it's hard turning Maurice into this hardcore badass. Can't wait for that Otto/Twist confrontation? Well...I hope this chapter scratches that itch. Wait...what secret will be out? Eh. I do love pie. Everytime I see my sister, I ask her "did you bring me pie?" and she always says, "No." The wench, huh? BRING ME PIE, DAMN IT!

JustMeandMyself: Cool. Keep reviewing.

Warina-Kinomoto: Hey, chickee! I'm glad you liked that chapter. And while I do appreciate the suggestions, and I'm sure they stem from the fact it took me awhile to post the next chapter, my lack of updating isn't due to writer's block. I'll tell you the same thing I tell every reviewer that gives me suggestions, they're great and I'm glad you like my story so much that you want to help me with it, but I never start a story without knowing exactly where it's going to go and exactly how I'm going to get there. Do you understand? I don't even think I do. I guess what I'm trying to say is, I actually have this story entirely planned out, and written up to chapter eleven. So, while I liked your suggestions, they won't be much help...anyways. Don't apologize for your grammatical errors, everyone makes them. It's professionals like me who reread their work over and over and over and over again that should apologize for any grammar mistakes that pass under my radar. I love your reviews! You're so sweet!

In conclusion...ENJOY!

* * *

Chapter 5: Without Reason

_Obsession has begun_

_Possessed by destruction_

_How did I get so low_

_Believe me no one knows_

_Sometimes I can't hold on_

_And no one can help me_

-Sum 41, "Angels With Dirty Faces"

I raced into the house, slamming the door shut behind me and rushing up the stairs, ignoring my brother's wide eyes following me as I ran past. He'd just gotten home from practice, still balancing his gym bag on his shoulder, hair still wet from the shower he took in the locker room.

"Maurice?" he called after me, slightly peeved by the intrusion. A few of his friends, from the team, were with him, but I didn't even bother looking at them. I clutched my hand to my body, all my knuckles were bright red, stinging and dripping blood that was already starting to dry, but my right wrist was shooting with pain and I bit the inside of my cheek to take my mind off it. I was sure I broke it in the heat of the moment. I slunk into my room and slammed the door shut, falling heavily against it and cursing.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I chanted as tears sprung to the corners of my eyes.

I'd screwed up. I knew it. I knew I'd screwed up.

_Don't expect me to pull you off the guy when you get in over your head_.

I sunk to the floor, trying to concentrate on willing the pain away, but as my wrist was jostled in my slumping down, another jolt of pain raced up my arm into my chest and I gave a slight cry. I hadn't meant to pound Josh that hard, but I knew, as Lou tugged me off his limp body covered in blood, I'd crossed the line. I'd always been good at controlling my temper in fights. My composure was my greatest advantage, in fact. I would piss the other guy off, and his rage tended to blind him, make his movements in the fight clumsy and foolish. But Josh had called me stupid, and in that instant, I'd lost it.

I stumbled into my bathroom, and fell to my knees in front of the toilet, throwing up the pickle and beer that occupied it. I retched hard, even after my stomach was well empty, and tried to keep my wrist from moving too much. The smell from the toilet wafted to my nose, only making me retch more, and I could picture all the blood and that look on Josh's face, and his helplessness and pathetic attempts to fight back that died down as he grew weaker under my pummeling, and I couldn't help but feel sicker.

Finally, I stopped heaving, just sitting there over the vomit filled toilet staring at the chunks, until I lay down on the tiled floor and whimpered.

It had been like the ocean rushing in my ears, I couldn't hear those jeering chants as the crowd watched in pleasure. It had been like a blinding white light had covered my vision and all I could see was a bright red. And as we left, the accusing eyes of Otto Rocket and that black boy, like I was a piece of dirt, was the last thing I remembered. Otto's enraged glare, like he could kill me there was still floating before my eyes. Like a silent vow of murder. Had I finally pushed him to hate me? I closed my eyes and was surprised by the strangled sob that escaped my throat. I rolled onto my back and stared up at the ceiling, tears streaming down my face into my ears and down to the floor. My chest was aching with the sobs, and my throat felt scratched up.

I don't know how long I lay on the floor crying. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours. I wasn't quite sure. I no longer had any concept of time. I just wanted to lay there. But my hand had gone numb, and I could feel how swollen my wrist was. So I pulled myself to my feet and flushed the toilet, as it was starting to make the entire bathroom reek. I swished some mouthwash while I scavenged the cabinet under the sink for the first aid kit I knew was under there but had long been forgotten over the years. Finding the white plastic box, I tugged it out and rummaged through it, appropriating the things I needed. Some gauze, iodine, tape. I ran my wrist under cold water for a while, too afraid to go down stairs for an icepack and have to face my brother, and then wrapped it up. I clumsily cleaned my hands, washing the already caked blood from my knuckles so that fresh blood rushed up to the surface, and then spilled some iodine over the cuts, hissing with an intake of breath at the painful stinging of the chemical hitting my open wounds. Now dripping blood again, I leaned against the counter and took deep breaths, as I clumsily attempted wrapping them.

Then I pulled the bottle of Tylenol from the medicine cabinet and popped it open.

I'm not sure how many pills I decided to take, but I swallowed them dry in one great gulp. I then swayed my way back into my room and collapsed on the bed, suddenly completely wiped out.

I don't think I slept. I think I drifted in and out of sleep, but I don't think I actually slept. I was plagued by dreams, visions, and darkness. But nothing that made sense, and nothing I could quite remember. I kept hearing my name. Not my _name_ name, but my childhood name. Twister. And people were laughing. And I could hear the waves, smell salt. I felt like I was underwater, because of the pressure and the cool wetness. I felt soaked, like I was surrounded by, or drenched in water. And hands, I kept seeing hands, reaching towards me but not quite reaching. Somehow, I knew, that if those hands just stretched a little, they would be close enough for me to grasp. But it was like, they weren't even trying. Like they were taunting me, or something.

I woke up to someone pounding on my door, and calling my name. I thought it was my brother at first, and mumbled, "Lars, go the fuck away…" but then the pounding became louder, and the person was saying my name a bit sharper. My eyes fluttered open. I was drenched in sweat, as was my bed. My hair, my clothes, my bedding was all stuck to my body, and soaked with the same sweat and drying blood from my hands. I had vomited sometime in my tossing and turning, but had somehow managed to lean over and get at least most of it into the trashcan at my bedside. There were splatters of it on the floor and some on my pillow and sheets.

"¡Maurice, despierta¡Salga de cama!"

I cringed, lifting myself up slightly and staring bleary eyed at the door. It was my mother.

"I'm up, mom," I called in reply, but apparently I hadn't spoken loud enough, as she continued in her pounding and shrieking. My throat felt so dry, I would have given anything for a glass of water.

"¡Maurice, es hora para la cena¡Venido coma con su familia!"

I groaned. It was dinner time already? How long had I been out? I glanced momentarily at the clock on my bedside table, but while I could see the numbers quite clearly, I had no idea what those rigid red lines were symbolic of. I rolled out of bed and made my way to the door, placing my hands on it's white wooden body in hopes of supporting myself. I felt so weak and brittle. I wobbled and thought for certain I was going to fall over.

"I'm up, mom," I cried as loud as I could possibly muster, "I'm coming." I wasn't sure she had heard me, until she stopped hitting my door and fell silent.

"Oh," she said, sounding almost surprised, like she hadn't expected me to be in the room or to answer or something, "Okay." And then, I heard her shuffling away, and the creak of the third step as she made her way down the stairs.

I half fell, half walked into the bathroom and splashed some cold water on my face. I examined my wrist, the swelling had gone down a little. Maybe it wasn't broken after all. And then I took a deep breath, and made my way out of my room. My father and brother were already sitting at the table, and my mother was hovering around them, fluttering like a butterfly, laying plates of fine Mexican food out on the table. Spanish rice, beans, tortillas, floutas, tamales. I felt sick all over again, and nearly spun around back up to my room. But my mother saw me and caught me under the arm, planting a kiss on my cheek that I knew left a clean imprint of her bright red lipstick. She ran a hand over my matted hair and frowned, clucking her tongue while my brother and father surveyed the food, breathing it in and licking their chops.

"¿Maurice, cómo estas?" she questioned, her brow furrowed in worry.

"I'm fine," I muttered, trying to sound a little more chipper than I actually felt. She let me move towards my seat, watching me a moment in doubt, before continuing in her bustle to put the different plates on the table, then finally taking her own seat.

I knew what I was supposed to do, but I couldn't make myself do it. I just stared dumbly into space, trying to focus on something substantial instead of the colorful spots floating in front of my eyes as my family lowered their heads. My father led the prayer, and I watched stupefied. I couldn't even hear what he was saying. Something about, "thank you for the meal, thank you for protecting our family, thank you for this and that and…blah, blah, blah…" When he finished, they all muttered their Amen's, but my mouth didn't move and no sound escaped my throat. They began piling food on their plates, laughing and chatting, as they stuffed forkfuls of beans and rice into their flapping lips. I barely heard my mother as she asked me why I wasn't eating, and then there was a knock at the door, and my mother left to go answer it, my brother and father not even pausing as Lars regaled the story of practice and how in his upcoming game they were "so going to whomp the other team".

"I'm sorry to disturb you during your dinner, Mrs. Rodriguez," a strong, gentle voice from the front door came to me the clearest of everything, and my mother gave a confused murmur.

"What is this about?" she questioned, then in a disbelieving suggestion, "…Lars…?"

"No," the voice from the door said carefully, "Is Maurice home?"

"…yes…he is…" my mother stammered, still confused, as she stepped back to let the visitor in. A plump black woman that I had known my entire life and a stiff faced young man I didn't know though he seemed familiar waltzed in, and they looked to me. I stared back blankly, my jaw set. The woman strode towards me, and my brother and father had stopped eating and talking, they were staring at her as well as she came to stop in front of me.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to come with me, hon," Officer Shirley said as calmly as she could, but she stuttered slightly, faltered in her kind confidence. The young man with her was fingering his handcuffs, and I simply nodded, not at all surprised by their intrusion on our family dinner.

"What is this about?" my father asked, half standing up from his seat, looking at Shirley anxiously and a little flustered.

"I'm sorry, Raul," Shirley mumbled, looking to him with gleaming eyes. I wondered if she was going to cry, and if she was, why, "It seems Maurice was in a fight with another boy this afternoon and…"

"My son would never!" my mother cried from the door, "Unless the other boy started it! Go arrest him, it's his fault! Maurice would never!"

"The other boy is in the hospital," Shirley almost snapped, before catching herself and looking gently to my mother. In a benevolent nonobjective voice she explained, "We have witnesses that point your son as the aggressor and…and…" her words caught a moment, "They say that he and his friends surrounded the boy and…I'm sorry, Sandy. I can barely believe it myself…I've known Maurice since he was a munchkin, but our witnesses are credible and…I'm sorry, I have to take him."

"You're witnesses are liars," my mother continued stubbornly, "My Maurice would never…"

I think I should have been touched by my mother's steadfast belief in me, but I just felt sick. I stood, slowly, shakily. Not from shock, but because I still felt weak for some reason and nauseous. The young man stepped forward, almost eagerly with his handcuffs, but Shirley put a hand on his shoulder.

"Let me," she said silently, and he seemed to dim a little with unhappiness as he handed the cuffs over to her. She put a hand on my shoulder and led me towards the door. I flickered a glance back to my father and brother still at the table, watching me with wide eyes and furrowed brows. I ducked my head and heard their chairs scrape as they followed us to the door. It wasn't until I stood by the police car, the red and blue lights flashing across my face, the siren off, that Shirley gently took my hands behind my back and loosely cuffed me.

"I'm sorry, hon," she said, as though she had failed me, as though everything were her fault, as though she were completely to blame. For the first time that night, I almost felt guilty. I had the strong urge, suddenly, to try running for it. Thinking, maybe if I ran for it, she or maybe even her overeager young partner, would pull their gun and shoot me. And maybe if I was lucky, they would hit me in the head, or the back through the heart, or somewhere where I would die and the doctors would have no chance of saving me.

She carefully lowered me into the backseat of the car and stopped to look down at me, almost sadly, before closing the door. She looked back to my parents, standing in the doorway, Lars peeking out behind them.

"You're going to have to get some money and come down to the station to bail him out," she told them wearily, as though she were suddenly wiped from having to come to my house and put me into her police car. And then she crossed to the driver's seat, her young friend jumping into the passengers side, and she started up the engine.

I could see Miss Dullard, the nosy bitch, staring out her door at us. Sam was in the window trying to appear inconspicuous. He was just as nosy as his mommy. Mr. Stimpleton had come out of his house as well, though Violet Stimpleton had already been outside taking out the trash, she had caught a glimpse of me and was now making her way back up towards her house, shaking her head the whole way. Otto, who had been on the Rocket's half-pipe, was paused on his rollerblades looking at me with an unmistakable sneer. I lowered my head and closed my eyes, leaning back and thinking of taking a nap as we drove away from my home, my street, my neighbors that hated me, the Pier, the beach, Madtown, and every place I had run rampant through during my childhood towards the police station downtown.

I had to sit in the little "waiting room" on an uncomfortable steel chair. The metal was ice cold, and I was seated next to a grisly older man who smelled of alcohol, which made me salivate. Officer Shirley brought me a cup of water and held it up for me to drink from, as I was still cuffed. They were filling out the paper work. She came again later and led me to a room. They un-cuffed me then and a short, ugly man in a blue uniform, plump and balding on the top, forced my fingers into ink and rolled them over a sheet of paper in little squares outlined in thin black lines. The squares were labeled, "R. Index", "L. Thumb", and so on and he placed my fingers accordingly. When they were done, my hands were covered in black smudges. They took me to a small white room with a camera and made me hold up a board with my name and a number, and took pictures of me from the front and sides.

Mug shots. I started laughing while they were taking my pictures, and they stopped momentarily, as Shirley looked at me with concern and the cameraman stared down his nose at me in contempt.

"What's wrong, hon?" Shirley started slowly, and all I could manage was a strangled, "mug shots…" I don't know if that's what I thought was funny, but she nodded as though it were and she understood. They took the mug shots with me snickering, and I couldn't help but think years later when they used the mug shots for a line up, someone would come across mine and think I was a sociopath of some sort, laughing as I was being thrown in jail. The idea of it only made me laugh harder.

Shirley went out of her way to make sure I had a cell to myself. As she led me down the hallway past the few other cells, the prisoners made cat calls. Saying things like, "Aren't you a sweet looking little boy?" and "What did you do, stay out past your curfew?", stupid shit like that. I did a pretty good job of ignoring them. They were losers, really, trying to act tougher than they were. They were really just thugs and punks hanging out in holding cells until they were either released or made bail.

My cell was like every other one. A public toilet, steel colored and dirty. Shirley had let me use the move private bathroom, the cleaner one, before she locked me up. I hadn't needed to go, anyways. The floor was nothing more than cement scuffed and covered with beach sand. There was a bench attached to the wall, and the gate was wrought iron. Shirley led me inside the cell and turned me to face her. I was about her height now, and I thought about how I had always been looking up to her and now we were eye level. Did that make us equal? She seemed tired, and her hair was beginning to gray a little. The area around her eyes had crinkled slightly with wrinkles, and she seemed so old. When did she age, I wondered. She kind of looked like a painting, faded over time. I fought the urge to laugh again, as I noticed the seriousness in her eyes. And the sadness.

"I've known you since you were a little one," she began, and I took a deep breath, not sure where she was going to be taking this. Her hand was placed lightly on my arm, and she was staring me directly in the eyes. In made me kind of nervous. She held my gaze for a long time, as though searching them for something, "That boy is in the hospital," she continued, never looking away from me, "Five broken ribs, severe head trauma, three chipped teeth, a broken nose…" she paused, scouring my eyes once more. I began to realize, she was looking for a sign of remorse. She was looking for something, anything, in my eyes, behind my eyes, that showed I felt some sort of guilt for what I'd done. So that she could feel as though her faith in me wasn't misplaced. Maybe she was even looking for a hint of the child I'd once been so that she could announce, "there's no way this little munchkin had anything to do with the beating of this boy and I would stake my badge on it!"

"I could have killed him," I said flatly, dispassionately, "But I didn't." I don't know why I said it, maybe I was trying to explain the situation to her. See, I didn't kill him, I still did good, right? Her eyes flickered something, some emotion I couldn't identify, and I think she was trying to discern if that was what she'd been looking for. In any case, her hand fell away from me, and I suddenly missed the warmth of her ginger touch. Few people touched me like that anymore.

So trustingly. Motherly. Lovingly.

Tenderly.

She cleared her throat, and went on in an informative manner, "His parents are thinking of pressing charges. If that happens, you can end up in juvenile detention until you're eighteen." I felt fear pass over my heart, but quickly disperse. My father was a lawyer. There was no way in hell he would let that happen. I kind of felt sad with that knowledge, because I suppose I kind of deserved to be in juvie. She moved to touch me again, but pulled back at the last minute, and turned, leaving.

It wasn't when the gate slammed that I crumbled. And it wasn't when I was suddenly alone in that holding cell, with older criminals in cells around me. It was that moment she turned from me, that I fell backwards, stumbled onto the bench and plopped down, my hands gripping the edge of the bench until the knuckles turned white and my eyes were narrowed to nothing more than tiny slits. My heart hammered, pounding against its prison, my chest and ribcage. It was trying to escape. Trying to break free of that black hole of emotion that I'd put it in years ago.

I think I wanted to cry again, but I couldn't get myself to.

So I leaned back instead, waiting.

It was nearly two hours later, I watched the clock, when my cell door opened and an officer standing with my father stared at me expectantly from the open gate. I stood, rigidly, taking my time, and walked out. My father's hand clamped onto my neck as he led me down the hall, and his grip was so tight, that it wasn't so much a fatherly touch, but rather a restraining hold, like he thought I would bolt or maybe even just simply disappear if he didn't hold onto me. The other prisoners were respectfully silent as we left, and everyone seemed to follow us with quiet eyes.

When we climbed into my father's car, he didn't start it up. He sat with his back straight and his hands resting on the steering wheel. He stared straight ahead, and I couldn't quite read him. I folded my hands in my lap and lowered my head.

"Where's your hat?" Of all the questions, of all the things that needed to be said, my father's first fucking words were about my goddamned missing hat. I almost laughed, but instead raised a hand to my head, running it over my closely cropped hair as though just realizing it was gone. The stubs bristled against my palm, tickling it. My hand fell back into my lap and I slumped forward.

"I lost it," I whispered, just barely audible, "At my friend's house." He nodded his head slightly and we were silent once more.

"Why?" my father finally questioned, and I frowned, my brow drawing together.

"Huh?" I lifted my head to look at him.

"Why?" my father said again, and then, in a desperate croak, his voice cracking with each word, "Why? Why? Why¿Por qué, Maurice¿Por qué harías esto?"

"I don't know why I did…"

"¡Eso no es bastante bueno!"

I winced when his voice became a shout, and he turned to me suddenly, and I could see that he was shaking with anger.

"We raised you better than this, Maurice¡Le enseñamos derecho de mal! How could you embarrass your family like this? How could you disgrace me like this? How…how…¿cómo podrías hacer esto?" he demanded, his eyes were narrowed now, and he seemed to be pleading me for an answer, his mouth hinged open though no sound came out. I looked away, "We are very disappointed in you, Maurice," he finally told me, in a quiet, grave tone.

"Lo siento," I mumbled, "I don't know."

I could still feel his eyes on me, boring through me, trying to understand me, as we sat there in a long, drawn out, silence. Finally he turned the car on and it purred to life. He pulled from the parking lot onto the street, and we drove in tense silence homeward. I itched to lean forward and turn the radio on. Even if it was my father's old Spanish music, I didn't care. I needed something to kill the silence. But I sat still. I didn't dare move. I wasn't afraid my father would lash out at me or anything. He wasn't a violent man. But something held me in place.

When we pulled in front of our house, I stayed in the car until my father crossed over to my side and opened the door, ushering me out. I followed behind him, unable to stand tall. My shoulders were curled forward, my head hung low. He opened the door and let me walk in first before following me in. My mother sat in the dining room, at the table, she watched me from where she sat, as though she had been sitting there the whole time watching the door and waiting for me to walk through. She shifted, as though she was going to get up and come to me, but she didn't. She just sat there, staring at me.

"Vaya a su sitio, Maurice," my father commanded me, and I wordlessly obeyed, trekking up the stairs. I shut my bedroom door as quietly as I could behind me, so as not to alert my brother, who I was certain was holed up in his room, that I was back. I didn't bother trying to eavesdrop on my parents. If they hadn't decided my punishment already, they weren't going to that night.

I fell to my bed, and passed out.

-0-0-

Otto sat casually slumped on the park bench, his skateboard resting over his knees as he stared out across Madtown. Jamal was attempting a simple kick flip, but wasn't being very successful at it. He was somewhat new to the skateboarding thing, and while he picked up on other sports pretty quickly, he just couldn't seem to get skateboarding down. Otto didn't mind as the other boy was good at handling being busted on all the time for it and there was nothing Otto loved more than sports and having someone to bust on.

"That kid's probably already out," Jamal was saying, as the board slammed unceremoniously to the ground and he stumbled off of it, nearly tripping in the bad landing. He caught his balance, and forgetting the skateboard, fell next to Otto on the bench. Otto didn't have to ask who 'that kid' was, "It doesn't seem fair," he went on, "Josh got his ass beat, and for no reason, and that kid's not even gonna get a slap on the wrist."

"Josh's parents won't let it go," Otto insisted, but he didn't even glance at Jamal. Something else held his interest.

There was a girl, across the park, that he'd noticed as he was coming up on one of the ramps. He'd nearly beefed his move, he was so shocked by her. He was certain he'd seen her before, but he couldn't quite place where. She was slim, well endowed he shamefully noted, and quite pretty. Her skin was milk white, her layered hair was dirty blonde, and he couldn't quite make out her eyes, but it didn't stop him from imagining they were a brilliant blue or a deep gray. She was dressed in an Independent sweater, and cut off shorts that came just above her knees and hung loosely off her body. She was dancing with another girl, but he was too distracted by her to notice the other girl. She seemed to move fluidly, without a care in the world, and she wore an almost serene look on her face that held him mesmerized. She would close her eyes, and sway, and smile slightly, then frown, but not unpleasantly. He couldn't pull his eyes off her. He was sure he knew her, but he just couldn't recall a name or where he knew her from exactly.

He startled, when a hand wagged in his face and he blinked several times before reluctantly turning from that girl and looking to Jamal, and then the owner of that hand, his sister.

"Hey, Regina," Jamal greeted, with a grim smile. Sam stood beside Reggie, skateboard in hand and helmet on head. Reggie was without equipment of any sort, and she was wearing a nice dress.

"'Sup, sis?" Otto said, then giving her a once over, "Little overdressed to shred, wouldn't you say?"

"I'm not here to shred," Reggie replied, pertly, smoothing her skirt from behind and taking a seat. Otto looked between her and Sam, and then smirked.

"Oh, I see. You're just here to watch your man shred?" he teased. Sam turned a bright red, and Reggie flustered, looking a cross between embarrassed and just pissed off.

"What are you two _boys_ talking about?" she pressed for a subject change.

"Numero uno lame-o," Otto answered grumpily, lifting himself and making to head towards the ramps, before pausing, back to his friends. Reggie gave Jamal a quizzical look, and Sam, still blushing from Otto's comment, leaned forward awkwardly on the back of the bench.

"That kid…I don't know his name…Hispanic, red headed…"

"Twister?" Reggie supplied, and Otto spun so fast it was a surprise he didn't get whiplash.

"Maurice," he corrected sharply, and she bit her lower lip.

"Why are you guys talking about him?" she finally asked. Otto and Sam immediately fell silent, looking to the ground, the sky, around the park, anywhere but her. She hadn't heard. Not about the fight with Josh, not about the cops coming. She didn't know, they realized. She scrunched her brow, "Boys…" she pressed, "What's going on?"

"Well," Jamal opened his mouth, eager to tell the story and happy for once that he wasn't the one out of the loop, when Otto interrupted him.

"I don't believe it," he growled, and his friends looked to him in concern. He was looking towards the entrance of Madtown and they all turned to follow his gaze.

Reggie looked down as soon as she saw him, but the boys stared scathingly at the young man that had just stalked into the park. He walked with an air of confidence, a casual strut that marked his power and a few people stopped to stare at him in respect or fear. He held his board under his arm and made his way to a small group of boys, gathered to the far end of Madtown, who greeted him enthusiastically.

"Man, that guy has got guts," Jamal seethed, and Otto clenched his hands into fists, his finger nails biting into the flesh of his palms, "I can't believe he's out _already_."

"Out of where?" Reggie asked, her eyes jumped up, looking confusedly between her friends, "_Out of where?_"

"Jail," Sam answered quietly and she couldn't fight her gaze wandering to that slender young man, eyes softened and a twang of pain resounding in her chest. Across the way, he fell into a sitting position on the ground, and glanced them. His eyes caught her own and she couldn't help the blush that crept across her cheeks nor the way her heart pounded in her chest. She couldn't tell if jail had been kind to him. He looked the same as always, save for his eyes seeming more sunken in than usual and the bandage on his hand.

The boys turned away as soon as that young man had caught sight of them, and now they turned to one another, talking in hushed whispers.

"He don't even seem fazed," Jamal muttered, "Shit, he looks proud of himself."

"No," Sam protested, "He doesn't. He doesn't seem to care. What does it matter anyways? Forget about him, guys."

"Forget about him?" Otto hissed, "_Forget about him?_"

"Yeah," Sam said simply. Otto shook his head, throwing his hands in the air, before grunting loudly and taking off on his skateboard, dipping into the pipe, and putting his rage-induced adrenaline rush to good use. Jamal shrugged, before leaning forward on his knees and smirking at Sam.

"So, what's crackalakin, dawg?"

"Nothing really," Sam answered reluctantly. He wasn't very comfortable with Jamal, as they didn't really know one another, "Yourself?"

"I'm thinking about squashing that bastard," Jamal answered. Sam didn't have to ask who the "bastard" was, "I mean, who does he think he is? Like he's real tight shit or something? He's a freak, is all I know. Straight-up."

"Uh…right," Sam mumbled, nodding hesitantly. He'd only recently begun catching on to the local beach lingo, and now Jamal was there presenting him with all new slang that just jumbled his poor mind. He shuffled slightly, fidgeting and glancing about for some escape from that confusing conversation. His eyes fell on Reggie, who seemed to be dazed. Deciding it was probably because no one was including her, he took a seat beside her on the bench, "Hey, Reg…" she startled, shaking from her reverie and turning her slightly glazed eyes his direction.

"What's up, Sam?"

"Oh…uh…" he frowned. He hadn't really thought about what they could converse on, "Uh…hey, the guys at the computer club and me finished our RPG. We'll be displaying it Monday, after school."

"Exciting," Reggie commented, though her voice was low and she seemed to be staring at her hands, her face a bit flush. But Sam had settled into a subject that could take his entire focus, and he didn't notice how distracted she seemed.

"Oh, it is!" Sam exclaimed, "An extensive custom character generator, incredible graphics, fourteen comprehensive lands, an enthralling storyline - if I do say so myself - I'm so pumped for this. Hey…I have my laptop with me, and the disc…you want to see? You can be the first to give it a test run!"

"Huh…?" Reggie glanced up, trying to comprehend what he'd just said, as he shuffled with his pack and pulled his laptop out, "Oh…yeah…sure."

Sam set the laptop on the bench between them, booting it up, and rummaging through his pack for the disc. He frowned, turning out little hidden sleeves and pockets, feeling the very edge of the bottom. He tossed out books, binders, flipping them open, before tossing them to the side and flipping out his jean pockets. His frown became a twitch of panic as he jumped from his seat and tore open the backpack and people were pausing to watch him in shock.

"Sam…_Sam_," Reggie said sharply, grabbing the young man by the elbow and drawing his attention to her, "What's wrong?"

"I can't find it," he huffed, "I…it's gone…it can't be gone…it…I…oh man…"

"Sam, just think," Reggie commanded him, worry edging her voice, "Where did you last have it?" Sam closed his eyes, licking his lips and shaking with his grief.

"I…I had it…when I left the school yesterday…and…" he scrunched his face up, trying to picture the disc, trying to recall where he'd put it when he got home. When above the crowd, a young man's voice caught his ear.

"Hey, what's with the music, Tambourine Man?" Sam recognized that voice. He'd heard it the day before in a threatening sneer accompanied by a cloud of smoke. His eyes opened and he narrowed his eyes the direction of the small group of boys. The boy on the ground, with long brown hair and a funny black hat, was leaning over a stereo. He popped open the CD player, pulling out a disc. A very familiar disc, and Sam felt his heart jump to his throat.

"This crappy CD must be scratched or something…it don't make no sound," the boy slurred, holding the CD with the tip of his fingers. On the front of the CD, written in black Sharpie ink was Sam's handwriting. The brunette haired boy was turning it over, examining it, his mouth hanging open, his tongue pressed to his upper lip, his eyes widened ever so slightly, "No…nope…there's no scratch…"

"Where did you get that CD?" the redhead, the redhead that Sam couldn't bring himself to even glance at, spoke up.

"Huh…? Uh…"

Before Sam knew what he was doing, he was on his feet crossing the park with determined strides.

"Sam?" Reggie called after him, "Where are you going?" But he didn't stop. His eyes never left that CD, and he made his way quite hastily over. He stopped in front of the small group, chatting, muttering, laughing amongst themselves and paying him no mind.

"I'll tell you where he got that CD," Sam piped, but his voice trailed off into a squeak as the entire group turned their attention to him, eyes burning into his flesh. He swallowed hard, mouth parted slightly, eyes wide, and trembling from head to toe.

"Oh?" The blonde haired boy with the smoke-filled sneer began, and Sam felt his entire body tense, "And where did he get this," the boy took the CD from the long-haired boy who seemed dumbfounded and a little lost, "CD from?"

"Uh…well…" Sam stammered, lowering his eyes and suddenly kicking himself for being so stupid. What had compelled him to walk all the way over to these boys? "You see…it's mine," he managed to get out, "And…I would really…really…really appreciate if you could…um…" he swallowed again, "Maybe…give it back?"

"How do I _know_ it's yours?" the blond haired boy questioned slyly, then, smirking, "Because…you know…I really want to make sure it gets back to its rightful owner."

"Well clearly that's my handwriting," Sam snapped, flabbergasted. It was completely obvious this boy didn't care about getting the CD back to its right owner.

"How do I _know_ it's your handwriting?"

Sam flickered a glance to the redhead, who seemed to be finding his sneakers extremely interesting at the moment, hoping for a little help or something. He took a deep breath, trying to ignore every instinct in his body telling him that this was a bad news situation. Trying to fight every natural urge to let it go and run for the hills.

"Look, you and I both know," Sam stuttered, trying to sound confident, but only managing a pathetic, pleading squeak, "That I dropped that when you ran into me the other day. Now you've had your fun and I think it's a little old now. Can I please have it back?"

The blond rolled the CD in his hand, seeming to be considering things.

"What's on it?" the longhaired boy sitting on the ground suddenly quipped, and the blond perked at that. Sam sputtered, his lips moving in indignation, though no sound came out.

"It's none of your business," Sam spat, looking down at the longhaired boy who sat with a childlike demeanor. The boy seemed to pout slightly, tilting his head, downcast.

"I just…wanted…"

"It's nothing you'd be interested in," Sam muttered, then slightly louder for the blond to hear, "_Nothing_ you'd be interested in. Now…?" he held his hand out, hoping deep inside of him that the blond would simply hand over the CD and end the awkward moment. But the blond was looking down at the longhaired boy. He glanced over his shoulder to the redhead, who was staring directly at the two blond boys. He shook his head at the blond boy, and the boy smiled cruelly at that seeming sign.

"Oh, well, if it's nothing," the boy said, with an air of happiness. He started to hold the CD out and elation was evident on Sam's face as he eagerly moved to accept it. When, almost suddenly, the blond boy snapped the disc in two pieces and let it drop to the floor. Sam stared in disbelief as the broken shards seemed to fall in slow motion. His mouth dropped with them, and then his breathing became erratic as the boys around him seemed to chuckle and laugh, save for that redhead and the longhaired boy who looked at the broken disc almost sorrowfully. "Whoops," the blond shrugged, "Sorry, _bra_…but, hey…you said it was nothing."

"I…but…" Sam stammered, dropping to his knees, his bottom lip trembling. He picked the two halves up, trying to put them back together, and feeling his heart ache. He wanted to scream, but he couldn't. He wanted to cry, and he thought that he probably would.

"What the hell did you do that for?" Reggie's strong voice demanded from behind Sam, and he startled somewhat. The boys stopped laughing to regard her. She stepped in front of Sam with her powerfully graceful movements and gave the blond a once over, "You're Steve, right?"

"That would be my name," the blond chuckled. And in an instant, a crack resounded through the park, his head was turned to the side and he was clutching his cheek and Reggie stood poised from the movement. Nobody was quite sure what had happened. But Steve's eyes flashed and he snapped his head back to Reggie and even made to move forward, when a hand on his arm pulled him back.

-0-0-

I'd missed school. Slept through most of the day. My parents and brother hadn't woken me up, though, so I thought nothing of it. When I'd woken up, finally, it was the afternoon. About four o'clock. I rolled from bed, pulled on some clothes, spent nearly half an hour looking for my hat before giving up, and heading downstairs to search for food. I realized I hadn't eaten since the day before at Doug-E's house. I grabbed out the bag of potato chips, and leftover hotdogs and refried beans, eating them cold. There was a note on the refrigerator addressed to me. "Maurice, grounded, stay home" it read in my father's sloppy handwriting. I stared at it openly for a long while, before pulling a cold coke from the fridge, grabbing my board by the door, and taking off outside.

I headed to the only place where I knew my friends would be hanging, what with school having just gotten out and it still being early in the day. Madtown skate park.

I wasn't wrong. There were a lot of kids there. I was surprised. What with almost being Summer, and the temperature heating up, I was certain most of the locals would be on the beach, soaking up as much sun as they could before the _shoobies _shuffled in. I scrunched my nose, kicking my board up into my hand and making my way into the park towards the group of boys I recognized. I hadn't even so much as thought the word "_shoobies_" in a long time.

Lou, Jordan, Mike, Steve, Dylan, Ricky, and Travis were there. Ricky, Dylan, and Jordan were in the half-pipe tearing it up with the grace and style of boys who ate, slept, drank, and breathed skateboarding. Lou was chilling on the ground with his stereo, head laid on one of the speakers, though no sound was coming out he seemed to be mouthing the words to some unheard song.

Travis was sitting next to him rolling back and forth on his board and watching the guys in the ramps, calling things out to them, and laughing when they fucked up a move. He was a poser, but I didn't mind him so much. When he boarded, he didn't feel the need to show-off, and if he pulled off a really awesome move, he was pretty humble about it. He wasn't the type to rub things in people's faces. He just liked to bust guys, especially Ricky, but they were best friends, so it didn't matter.

Steve was chatting with some other kids, probably guys looking to light up. He didn't seem too happy with them, and he kept glancing towards someone to the side. I followed his gaze as I made my way up. It was my girlfriend dancing with Cheerios. I frowned, running a hand over my bare head that was starting to feel naked without my hat, and looking down. She was high, I could tell from the way she was moving.

Mike was leaning against the wall, talking with his girlfriend. She was leaned in close to him, his legs straddling her body, his hands resting on her hips. She was talking excitedly about something, her hands flying about as though they were playing some fucked up game of charades or something.

Travis was the first to notice me, and he gave a slight wave, but didn't make a big deal about it. It was Dylan, who raced over and clamped his hands on my shoulders exuberantly that called everyone's attention to me.

"Look who escaped the slammer," he exclaimed, and I grimaced, shaking my head, and forcing a smirk through my gritted teeth.

"Yo, Maurice," Ricky called, while landing a simple heel flip and sprinting over to lightly punch my shoulder and then come to lean against the wall with Dylan, who'd picked up a "water" bottle from the ground. He offered it to me and I took a quick swig, licking my lips and handing it back. Bacardi 151, good stuff.

Steve nodded my direction, and Lou perked slightly, looking almost expectantly at me and punching my extended fist. Everyone else called their own greetings, though my girlfriend was way too seriously wasted to even notice my entrance. I was kind of happy for it. I crossed behind Mike and slapped him upside the head, and he turned to me with a cross look that didn't entirely dissipate when he saw it was me.

"What the fuck was that for?" he demanded.

"Where the fuck were you yesterday?" I shot back. I could be angry too. He looked away, his tongue in his cheek and his lips pressed together.

"I had detention. Fuck man, there was nothing I could do," he muttered.

"He doesn't need to fight your fucking battles anyways," his girlfriend spoke up, in her annoying, high-pitched squeal. She always sounded like she was nagging you, no matter what she was saying, it's just the way her voice sounded. I turned my glare on her, staring her down. She had bright blue eye shadow on and a gob of mascara in the corner of her eye. I couldn't understand how Mike could even make-out with the bitch, with that blob on her face. God, I hated her. Die, bitch, die.

"Why don't you stay out of this, Traci? It's none of your damn business," I hissed. I turned my attention back to Mike, "You were supposed to have my back. You knew you were supposed to…"

"I had detention," Mike stressed.

"You should have ditched," I snapped.

"No way, man," Mike muttered, rubbing his head where I'd slapped him, though I hadn't hit him that hard, and sending me dark glares, "They call my parents when I don't show up," he smirked then, suddenly, and shook his head, hand falling to his girlfriend's back and pulling her closer to him, "Besides, I hear you did just fine without me." I let myself loosen, turning back to fall into a seat next to Lou.

"Yeah, I guess," I answered, leaning back and pressing my palms against the cement, "Whatever, man."

Mike shrugged, turning back to his girlfriend. She was talking to him now, in a low voice. She seemed a little pissed about something, but I wasn't paying attention to them anymore.

On the other side of the park, near the front benches, I could see Otto Rocket and his new best bro. They were sitting with Sam and her. All of them were eying me like some piece of scum, like I didn't belong there, though I had just as much, if not more, right to be there than them. Why couldn't they be at the beach or the Shore Shack or something?

They all looked away, immediately. Except her. She held my gaze, while the guys talked excitedly. I felt like fidgeting, but I sat very still, unmoving, like I was afraid to move. Like I didn't even have the ability to move, as though she paralyzed me. Like Medusa, I was turned to stone. She had been watching me, I knew it. She was studying me, trying to piece me together like a puzzle or something. So I tried to figure her out too. We just sat there, trying to answer the other's question.

And then Sam sat next to her, and said something, and she looked away. I felt my chest convulse and lowered my chin to my collarbone. I thought, I'd been so close to figuring her out. Like maybe something was going to happen, or something was happening, and he'd completely screwed it up. I was suddenly mad at Sam. I hated him, suddenly, and my head was swimming, and I was shaking slightly. I felt almost devastated.

"Lilac," Lou murmured next to me, and I glanced at him from the corner of my eyes. He had his hand up slightly, and he was waving. I looked back towards her and she was looking at him confused, before turning back to Sam.

"Cut that out," I muttered, and he grinned at me, lowering his hand back to rest on his stereo and laughing. And as suddenly as he'd been smiling and happy, it all died, and he was frowning. I was startled. I knew Lou went through mood swings, from the drugs, but there was something awing about him looking so upset. He was always pretty cheerful, always on that natural high. He shifted, shuffling through his pockets and pulling a little sandwich baggie out. He shoved it towards me as discreetly as possible, flashing his eyes back and forth to see if anyone had noticed and I took it into my hand, looking at it confusedly. It was filled with little pills of varying colors, "What's this?" I asked.

"Chalk," Lou answered nervously, strumming his fingers on top of his stereo speaker, as his eyes darted about the park. Well. That explained his odd behavior, but not why he was shoving it off on me unless by some good fortune… "Need you to keep it for me…cops were at my house again…and the social worker's coming by so…" Oh. That made sense. I nodded, shoving the bag into my pocket.

"What were the cops at your house for?" I asked, worrying for a minute he'd gotten in trouble for the jump the day before, too.

"Something about my brother," Lou shrugged, "They thought he'd be home…" I nodded once more, understanding, not needing anymore information beyond that. We fell silent, looking down at the cement in front of us.

Lou didn't talk about his home life much. If he ever did, it was usually with Doug-E. After all, Doug-E was practically the one confidant we all really had. I knew a little bit about Lou's life. His father was gone though I didn't know where. His older brothers both dealt. The eldest used to run a Meth-lab with a friend in an abandoned house, he was in jail. The other brother mostly dealt weed, or synthetic shit that he would mix in the house and test out on Lou. But he had taken off a long while back. His mom didn't deal, but I knew she was a heroin junkie and used to work as a prostitute when Lou was like three or something, to get money to buy her drugs. She would turn tricks with Lou in the same room, even. She'd keep him in the closet, or something, when she couldn't get someone to watch him. I think she worked as a waitress now, or something. She didn't work often, though, barely getting out of bed some days. They relied mostly on Welfare checks, I think. I realized the cops going to his house shouldn't have surprised me as much as it did. I stared at Lou awhile, long and hard. He never had a chance. He was screwed from the beginning.

I wondered what he would have been like, if he was born into a different family, into a different situation. I wondered if he would have still done drugs. If he'd of still hung out with us and partied hard and all that shit. I tried to picture him as a good kid. I could see him, just barely, with a neat little hair cut trimmed just above his ears, nicely pressed clean slacks, an L.L. Bean shirt and shiny loafers on his feet. He probably could have gotten straight A's, all honors classes. I tried to imagine him as a healthy weighted, bright shiny kid, instead of this sickly thin, baggy eyed, bum before me. I could almost see him, with his white-picket-fence family rolling up to the school in their station wagon or minivan, or even an SUV, and his mother pecking him lightly on the cheek with her Mary Tyler Moore bob hair cut.

Lou noticed me looking at him and snickered slightly. Back to his usual cheer.

"Tweaking?" he asked me, and I blinked a few times, looking away.

"Yeah, sure," I murmured. I looked over to Steve, still talking to those fucking posers.

"Come on, man, just tell us where the party's going to be," one of the kid's was saying. He was pretty straight-laced, with Dickies jean shorts, and a No Fear shirt. His friend looked at me, a strange half-glance, and he smiled slightly when we caught eyes. I didn't smile back. He was wearing a Water Works beanie, and holding a skateboard that looked like he bought it from Target. They were clean cut looking kids.

"What party?" Steve replied innocently. Or as innocently as he could manage. He was looking down on them, treating them like something stuck to the bottom of his shoe. I wanted to kick his ass suddenly, for no reason.

"He's such a dipshit," I muttered to Lou, whose forehead crinkled in confusion.

"Who?"

"Steve," I answered peevishly, never taking my eyes off the blond jerk, "You know, he was just like those kids…what…six months ago? He acts like he's…like he's…I don't know, an all-star or something."

"24/7," Lou snickered, and I grinned at him, punching fists, "We are his idols, after all, loco dude," then batting his lashes at me, "He just worships the ground you walk on because he thinks you're the shit, man. He's just treating them the way he _knows_ you would. He wants to impress you."

"Whatever, dude," I muttered, "He's just as much a poser as those two kooks."

"Huh?" Lou raised a brow at me, "Kooks?"

"Posers," I quickly corrected, leaning back and staring at the blader bowl in shameful disgust. Kooks. I hadn't used that word in a long time either. What was going on with me? Taking a trip down memory lane, or something?

"Don't matter," Lou said, in a serious tone I'd never heard him use before. I sat up straight at that, staring at him warily from the corner of my eyes, "They can worship us all they want, you know, but they're all posers. They can't be like us. They don't have reasons, they just have wants." I opened my mouth to ask him what he meant by that, but Steve had turned to us abruptly, having finally gotten rid of the two kids.

"Hey, what's with the music, Tambourine Man?" he asked, "It's dead air out here, man."

"Oh yeah…" Lou mumbled, turning to his stereo and popping it open. He pulled out a glinting CD and held it out in front of him, "This crappy CD must be scratched or something…it don't make no sound." He flipped it over to the blue, rainbow colored side, examining it with a knowledgeable eye, "No…nope…there's no scratch." I frowned, looking at the disc in confusion.

"Hey, where'd you get that CD from, anyways, Tambourine Man?" I questioned. Lou was taken aback, furrowing his brow in concentration as he tried to recall where the shiny object had come from.

"Huh…? Uh…?" he shrugged finally, "I don't know…"

"I'll tell you where he got that CD," someone said from above us, and we looked up. I don't know how he got across the park so quickly, as I couldn't recall him ever being a swift moving boy, but somehow Sam stood before us, hands on hips and eyes focused on the CD in Lou's hands. We stared at him for a long time, none of us quite knowing how to take that kind of interruption.

"Oh?" Steve finally spoke up, and I knew that cruel look gleaming in his eyes, as he reached for the disc in Lou's hands, "And where did he get this CD from?" Sam appeared to squirm at that, losing his focus and confidence.

"Uh…well…you see…it's mine," I could tell those words were a struggle for the obviously flustered Sam to choke out, and I didn't know who to hate more, Steve for being a jackass bully, or Sam for being a spineless dumb-shit "And I would really…really…really appreciate if…you could…maybe…give it back?"

There was something about that quivering form before Steve, and that strangled plead, that ignited the truly evil, inner creep inside of him, and his lip slowly curved up into a smile that reminded me of one of those stone monsters that guarded those castles and old Catholic cathedrals and shit.

"Oh? And how do I _know_ it's yours? Because, you know, I really want to make sure it gets back to its rightful owner." I shook my head, slumping forward, watching, like the rest of the gang, with twisted interest. I hated us. I kind of wished someone would say something. Kind of wished that someone would step up and stop what was about to happen, because I wasn't sure I could stomach watching it.

"Well, clearly that's my handwriting," Sam cried. He didn't know what else to say, and there was a spike of confidence in that statement, that made me think maybe he could handle this.

"How do I _know_ it's your handwriting?" Steve pressed further, enjoying this way too much.

And then Sam did something he shouldn't have. His eyes looked to me, meeting mine, locking with mine. And through that exchanged look, as brief as it was, he was asking me for something. I knew it. He wanted _me_ to step up. He wanted me to say something, to take his side, to get his back, and put an end to the impending train wreck. I didn't know how to feel, but I knew that I was angry. I was surging with rage. I didn't owe him _any _fucking favors.

"Look, you and I both know that I dropped that yesterday when you ran into me," Sam tried again, speaking a little louder and looking pretty damn flustered, "Now you've had you're fun and I think it's a little old now. Can I have it back, please?"

"What's on it?" Lou piped, and the sound of his voice startled me. We all shifted, looking to Lou, grinning brightly, then back to Sam expectantly, trying to appear as interested as Lou evidently was. For a moment, Sam looked like a fish. His face was splotched red and white, and he puckered his lips, moving them up and down and out and in.

"It's none of your business," he said so fast and so sharply, that I was sure it must have cut Lou the way he flinched back, and lowered his eyes sheepishly. And that settled it. I definitely hated Sam more at that moment.

"I just…wanted…" Lou attempted, fidgeting with the front of his shirt, and Sam cut him off in a superior manner.

"It's nothing you'd be interested in." He sounded so sure, talking to Lou like he was a child or stupid or something.

God, I hated that. Lou didn't deserve it. Sure he was fucked up from all the drugs, and sure, they fucking messed up his brain so that he acted a little slow. But that gave Sam no right to treat him that way. Sam didn't know him. Didn't know anything about him. But he already seemed to have it in his head what kind of person Lou was. Sam seemed to turn his attention back to Steve.

"_Nothing_ you'd be interested in. Now…?" He stuck his pudgy hand out, and Steve shuffled his weight from one foot to the other, and suddenly, looked to me. I don't know when I became the ringleader, when I became master of all decisions, but I didn't question it as, in an execution style, I shook my head. That seemed to be the answer Steve wanted as he looked back to Sam like a child in a candy store.

"Oh, well, if it's nothing," Steve said, making to hand it back.

Sam was too eager, too hopeful, to doubt the true intentions behind Steve's move. So when Steve suddenly pulled back and broke the disc, Sam didn't even know what had happened. It dropped to the floor, and clattered noisily. I swear, I heard something inside of Sam break, and, mouth hanging open, he dropped to his knees on the ground and slowly, treating it like a priceless, fragile antique, he gathered the broken pieces and pressed them together like he could fix them or something. I almost laughed, he looked so heartbreakingly funny, and while everyone else laughed, I couldn't bring myself to. That disc meant something to Sam. It was important. Very important.

"Whoops," Steve chuckled, "Sorry, _bra_."

Oh, mocking the obvious surfer with beach talk, adding insult to injury, nice touch bastard.

"But hey, you said it was nothing."

"I…but…" Sam was stammering, and he looked on the verge of tears. I kind of felt bad. Sam wasn't really a bad guy. And you know, he was smart, he just didn't have a whole lot of common sense.

"What the hell did you do that for?"

I didn't want to hear that voice. It sounded so goddamned familiar, that it hurt, because it sounded so goddamned foreign at the same time. Like, I wasn't even hearing it aloud, like I was thinking it or something. I couldn't bring myself to look at her. Just knowing she was there, just seeing the way her shadow fell on the pavement, was more than enough to make my whole body feel like Jell-O. So I looked to Steve instead, to discern how he would react to this newcomer. She wasn't a small, begging, helpless little nerd, and you could tell by the forceful tone of her voice, and the way she stepped protectively, almost like a mother or big sister, in front of Sam and stared Steve down, looking him directly in the eye unblinkingly.

"You're Steve, right?" she asked, and I thought it was a strange question. Steve was obviously taken aback by it.

"That would be my name…" he started, and he looked ready to say something else, but he didn't even have a chance to open his mouth.

I saw it coming. I saw it coming a mile away. But it was like I was high or something, watching her movements in slow motion, all the way until her hand impacted with his cheek. And then everything zoomed back into regular speed. Steve turned on her, face beet red, and his entire body was tense. I could see the potential energy, pulsating in his body. I could see the adrenaline kick up and explode through his veins. His lip curled into a sneer and he was about ready to turn that heat into something violent, when I had his arm grasped tightly with my hand. I couldn't even remember how I'd gotten to my feet.

"I got this," I told him in a low murmur, and pushed him back before he could protest.

I stepped forward, staring down at Reggie menacingly. When had I gotten so much taller than her, I wondered. I think she was wondering the same thing, as she stared up at me through her lashes. She seemed nervous suddenly, and she faltered, her confidence wavering ever so slightly. It pained me, she'd always been so strong, and suddenly she seemed so vulnerable. What had happened between us? I half expected her to joke with me, laugh. I half expected myself to say something stupid, and her to point it out in a sarcastic manner, flashing me her sweet smile so I would know she was just kidding and she didn't really mean it. And then Sammy would say "bust" or something equally childish and dorky and we'd all burst out laughing.

Instead, she asked in a shaky voice, "What's happened to you?" My heart jumped. The question was just so goddamned blunt, I didn't know how to go about answering it. I could feel my friends staring at me, waiting for me to say something witty or asshole-ish.

All I could manage was a gaping, "Huh?" She'd knocked me too far off balance with those deep eyes analyzing and judging me, and looking so disappointed in me, and that careful question.

"Why do you have to act like such a jerk?" she demanded, and I could see tiny, sparkling tears, in the corners of her eyes. This was hard for her, but I couldn't figure why. Why was she getting so emotional over this? Why was it so painful for her to look me in the eye? "He just wanted his CD back, it was his. What purpose did it serve, breaking it? What possible benefit do you get from destroying someone else's hard work?" her voice was cracking now, as she was really going off, "I mean, what the hell have you ever done? Huh?" And then, it was like there was a dam in her, that finally broke and gave way to a tidal wave of rage and I was nearly swept under by the impact, "Goddamn it! What's happened to you? How could you change so much, Twister?"

I was startled. Not from her outburst. It didn't get to me that much, if at all. It was hearing my childhood nickname, that started that swirl of anger and disgust and that need to do something to prove to her just how much I had changed, just how much of a jerk I was. I smirked, and she stopped, breathing heavily as though she had been running a long time. My friends were all watching us. My girlfriend and Cheerios had both stopped dancing. And that bitch, Mike's girlfriend even looked a bit happy that I was getting yelled at, even if she didn't know what was going on and who the girl was.

"Fuck, chick," I said, almost giddily, "I think you have me mixed up with someone else," I folded my hands behind my neck, "My name's Maurice, babe, and you are?"

"You…" she stared at me, injured, just gaping in stun, "You…"

"And you know," I cut her off, "I really don't like this implication that we would intentionally destroy someone's property. We all saw it, my friend," I motioned towards Steve, "Said it was an accident. And he said he was sorry. So why don't you, and your boyfriend," I'd meant it to be an insult on the kindergarten level, but they both blushed, and it clicked, and something inside of me crashed and before I knew what I was doing I had leaned forward to push her back roughly, "Go run and play," I finished harshly, and she stumbled backwards, raising a hand to the spot where I'd touched her and staring at me with wide eyes. She looked like I'd struck her and I did push her kind of hard.

She met my eyes and for a moment, very brief, I felt all the guilt, sadness, regret, for everything I'd done, because I'd never seen so much sorrow, so much unhappiness, as was reflected in that deep blue. I lowered my eyes, and tried to let it go, tried to shake the feeling of power and pride I felt. When I looked back up, Sam was standing next to her, staring me down.

"How dare you…?" he sputtered, then looking to her, "You alright, Reg?"

"I'm fine, Sammy," she mumbled, peeking up at me.

"What's your problem?" he demanded of me, when my girlfriend was suddenly at my side.

"The bitch didn't have to get up in his face," Steve spat, and a few of my friends called their agreement. They had all shifted forward, ready for something to go down. I saw the black kid, Otto's new best bro, coming up to Sam's side.

"Her _name _is Reggie and you'll call her that," Sam hissed, suddenly finding a backbone…to stick up for her. Something about that bothered me.

"Yeah, her name is Reggie, not bitch" the black kid put in, stepping forward, toe to toe with Steve. I took a deep breath. This was going to go bad, fast, I knew. And then, I felt it like a whoosh of air, hands force me backwards, and I barely caught a glimpse of that boy with dreadlocks as I fell backwards and stumbled to regain my balance. I turned on him, feeling my hands clench into tight fists, fingernails biting into my palms.

"Don't ever touch my sister," Otto boomed, though his voice was just above a whisper. And as he stood there, with his goody-two-shoes friends, and his spick and span, bright, shiny white smile, and keen 'Rocket Boards' t-shirt, and daddy's boy attitude, I could taste something bitter in my mouth. The cold steely taste of loathe. I just wanted a reason, one little reason, to punch that smug look off his perfect little chick-magnet face.

"You say it like I'd want to," I replied haughtily, looking him square in the eye, "Though, you know, if she's dating that nerd, she's got to be desperate for somebody to touch her, man." Travis gave an "oh" like I'd said something real bad, some of the other guys snickered under their breath, and Cheerios giggled really loudly.

"Sam is ten times the person you ever were," Otto snarled.

"Ten times the pussy, you mean," I shot back, stepping forward, so that I towered over him. He didn't back down, meeting me glare for glare.

"Least he ain't a stupid pothead…bastard…kook!"

I clenched my jaw, dropping my voice real low, so that I didn't even think Otto could hear me, "Why don't you go back to your perfect fucking life? Get your good grades, play on your fucking teams slapping other guys' asses, play catch with your dad, jerk off at night, sleep, and when you wake up in the morning, I hope you know what a fucking poser you really fucking are. Just turn away, man," I said evenly, "Because I will fuck you up like I did your friend."

That seemed to set him off as he swung wildly my direction, and his fist caught my jaw. It took mere seconds for my head to snap back into place and my first fist to sink into his stomach, the next to connect with his cheek, and the next with his chin. Reggie cried out, Sammy screamed, my friends all cheered, and somewhere in the back I heard Lou say something about "going back to jail". But before I could land my next hit, or he could recover enough to get back in the fight, a hand fell on my shoulder, gripped my shirt, and ripped me away, pulling me back.

"Hey, hey, what's all this, mon?" a thickly accented voice broke through our violent war-cries. I stepped back, wiping at my lip that was bleeding where Otto had struck me. Conroy had stepped over to the fallen Rocket boy and was helping him up.

"These guys are causing trouble, man," the black kid spoke up, "That kid jacked Sam's stuff, was pushing Regina around, and steppin' up to Otto-man." I frowned as the boy's finger pointed accusingly at me. Conroy looked at me, narrowing his eyes, before looking at Sam, Otto, and her.

"This true?"

Sam and Otto nodded slowly. Conroy looked to me, giving me a once over. He'd known me a long time, way back when. And then he looked at Otto, almost in disbelief, before shaking his head. I thought he looked kind of sad, and then he turned to me, "Maurice Rodriguez," he said, "What have you got to say for yerself?"

"Fuck, man," I muttered. He raised an eyebrow, clucking his tongue.

"That's what I thought," he mumbled, before clearing his throat, "These are serious crimes you've committed, mon. I'm sorry," he really sounded like he was, "But Maurice Rodriguez, you are hereby banned from Madtown skate park. You are no longer welcome here." We were all silent a moment, staring blankly at him.

"You can't do that, man," Dylan spoke up, but Travis cleared his throat authoritatively.

"Actually, he can."

"Fuck this," I muttered, "He fucking hit me first!"

Conroy was looking around now, glancing at a group of small children that had stopped playing to stare at us. It felt like the whole park was put on pause, the way they all gaped. He looked at me then, saying forcefully, "You're going to have to leave now."

"Fuck this," I muttered again, but my girlfriend was pulling on my shirt, tugging me towards the exit and my friends had already started towards it, Lou lingering back and looking at me patiently.

"Come on, Maurice," my girlfriend was mumbling, pulling at me, "You can tell me about how lonely it was in lockdown." I didn't want to tell her about how lonely it was in lockdown. I didn't want her near me. I didn't want to be there. I didn't want to be staring Conroy down. The guy who'd been my buddy, my teacher, my role model, was sending me away in shame.

"Fuck this," I repeated. I pushed my girlfriend away slightly and she looked a bit hurt, but it didn't deter her from grabbing at my shirt again, and I half followed her this time, unable to pull my eyes from those disgracing accusatory stares. They were branding me with their eyes. I was a delinquent, a punk, a waste of time.

"Come on, loco dude," Lou called, "Brent's having a party at his house, man, and our good friend Sid's gonna be there."

I nodded, finally giving in to their coaxing and following them out. Dylan handed over the bottle of "water" and I took a long drawl then paused as soon as we exited the park as the roar of kids playing and enjoying themselves started up again. All those people, acting like I'd never even been there, like nothing had ever happened, like I no longer even existed. There was a prickling at the back of my neck, and I could hear a crash, like metal and fluid and wood and everything were crunched together, in my ears, though there was no source. In a swift movement, I flung the bottle through the air and it hit the sign that read MADTOWN, exploding. Bacardi sprinkled down on the pavement below and I stared at it, like I was dead.

"Fuck you," I screamed suddenly, "Fuck you all! I don't need you! Fuck you." When I was done, I took a deep breath and when they shook from their shock, Ricky snickered, "done?" I muttered a "yeah" and we started down the sidewalk again, my girlfriend talking about how we were all "going on a trip through the pearly gates in blue heaven". Lou started singing the OPM song, "if I die before I wake, at least in heaven I can skate…" and it wasn't long before we all joined in.

* * *

A/N: My shift key is sticking and it's annoying the hell out of me. I'm gonna be so tired at kung-fu tomorrow..sigh. This is all for you, babes, so you better drop a fucking review.

This chapter...what can I say about this chapter...I hated it. Again, yes. It was necessary, but it's not the best chapter. I think right now, chapter8 in this story is my favorite. But you can't compare, because I haven't posted chapter 8 yet, now have I? I'm such a tease. Ha! I'm soooooo tired...

My god, poor Maurice. Oh! And we got a little info on Lou's past. I like Lou, I don't know about you people. The thing you have to realize about him is, by nature, he's kind of a quiet, shy, boy. Generally, the only reason the others are really friends with him is because he's a drug dealer. Otherwise, they would have thought he was too quiet to kick it with. Of course, that's not the only reason they like him now. He's pretty...well...I'm not going into it right now. I'm too tired.

Drug Notes: In the convo between Lou and Maurice, Mauricemetions Steve asacting like he'san "all-star". All-star basically just refers to someone who does any kind of drug. Lou replies by saying "24/7", which just means someone who does drugs every day all day (24 hours, 7 days a week). The reason you need to know this, is he's kind of acknowledging to Maurice...it's kind of a joke between them...it's hard to explain. Does anyone understand what I'm talking about? They're recognizing themselves as all-stars, 24/7. Oi. Moving on. At the end Lou mentions a friend named "Sid", that's actually a street name for LSD. Also, the baggy that Lou handed Maurice, he says it's "chalk", that's another street name (if you didn't couldn't figure that one out). And finally, at the very end, the thing Trix says, "going on a trip through the pearly gate in blue heaven", that's all just one big drug reference.

Oh, and the part where Otto's watching that "girl" dance (I really hope you guys figured out who she was, but if not, oh well, I'm not telling...), I don't know why I threw it in there as I don't mention his strange "attraction" to the "mystery girl" again for several chapters.

As always, please excuse any grammatical or typing errors. Please _**REVIEW**_! It would make me so happy! Though, this story does kind of have a loyal fan base already (which I think is cool...) I still love _**REVIEW**_s from everyone who reads. Even if you didn't like the story or the chapter, I want to hear it! It really doesn't take that long, actually, to just say "howdy, good story" or "yo, this is crap." Thank you.

AND THANKS FOR READING!


	6. The Fallen

A/N: Okay, this is not as long as the other chapter...not even half as long. But it's important. I'd meant to post this sooner, but I just couldn't find time...

Thanks for the reviews you guys, you all rock!

salsipuedes: Thank you for the banana cream pie! You rock! There's a little more to the characters and reasoning behind what the "skaters" do, but that's the general idea of their morals. I've never seen Big Wednesday, but now I'm intrigued...hm...even if Twister didn't get the ass-whooping everyone seems to e in agreement he deserves, I think everyone was happy with that confrontation, and I'm happy too...that it was liked! I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as the last one, it was difficult for me to write.

fadingsilverstar: Thanks for loving my story. I love that you reviewed! And I'm sorry this update took so long...

what'shername9613: I'm glad you loved the chapter, I hope you love this one as well. Fight scenes are _really_ hard to write, so you have no idea how nice it feels to know you think I write them well. I guess I didn't intend for sides to be picked in this story...but I'm kind of on Maurice's side too. It'll be really sad when you all find out what drove him to this lifestyle and about his feelings on everything, including his old friends. It's always a good thing when the reader's connect with the characters in the story! And...I kind of hated Sammy a little then too...but at the same time, I felt sorry for him for what I was about to do. I don't know when I'll get chapter 8 up, but I hope this tides you over till then.

Warina-Kinomoto: Hi chickee! Ah...yes, the long awaited fight between Otto and Twist. It's not going to be the last one, I'm sure. And jail. There's always consequences for your actions, and jail was Twist's consequence for beating Josh senseless. I wish I could speak Portuguese so that I could read your fics...but alas, I'm an ignorant american. Can't wait for your review!

Alex: You know the truth about the world? Everybody judges people. It's not really a sad thing or a mean thing, it's just human nature. And despite the things Twister has done, he's still human. I'm glad you're feeling weird, or anything at all about this story, because it means I'm doing my job. Drawing you in. He was mean to Reggie, and he's not friends with Otto anymore. Like I've said before, I don't know if they'll ever be friends again. We'll just have to wait and see. I'm glad this story's affected you so and that you think it's as good as The Lies They Tell Us (yes, that's what it was called). Hope you did well on your exams.

UnlikelytoBearIt: Thanks for sparing me the comments. Keep in mind, in the last chapter, Otto didn't recognize the blonde girl. He knows Sherry, remember. It's someone he doesn't really know...like someone who doesn't go to his middleschool but maybe the highschool (hint, hint). Twister does seem like he just really needs a hug, doesn't he? And I'm pretty fond of Lou too...you don't even know the half of his past. My friends are like that too. Sorry the post took so long. And there's nothing more important than a reader's review.

Just me and myself: Sorry as soon as I could wasn't sooner...

LookingforSomethingToSaveMe: You're exactly right! More reviews never hurt anyone. In fact, they actually make people feel better! Wow. I don't think anyone's ever constantly reread my stories except me (and that's just to scan for ways to better the writing...), but I know what that's like, loving someone's story so much that you have this need to read it over and over again. I'm so glad that everyone seems to like my version of Twister, and seem to be in agreement that it's a very realistic depiction. Do you really think that someone could change back entirely after all that he'd been through? I thought the interaction between Reg and Twist was a little awkward, but I did like that last line too.Sorry you had to wait so long for an update...but...here it is!

Anyways, I'm gonna try using the reply function from now on...so if people could make an effort to login when they review...if you don't, that's okay. I'd rather have a review, rather than an easier way to reply to everyone's comments.

ENJOY!

* * *

Chapter 6: The Fallen

_Why have you forsaken me  
In your eyes forsaken me  
In your thoughts forsaken me  
In your heart forsaken me, oh  
Trust in my self righteous suicide  
I, cry, when angels deserve to die_

-System of a Down, "Chop Suey"

I greeted Brent with a clasp of hands and a slap of shoulders and made my way into his house. His parents were rich, and it showed in the large home, nice cars, expensive artwork, and Brent's own fancy Banana Republic clothes. At the moment, his mother and father were spending time in Paris. I didn't like hanging out with Brent for obvious reasons. He could be stuffy. He didn't go to the same school as us, he went to some private academy. He was Steve's connection, but we all treated him like an old friend when we saw him. Though we only ever saw him when he was having a party, and his parties were always well-stocked with his personal stashes. Good quality shit.

Some people were already there, and while my friends all went to mingle and shit, I stood by the door staring out at the room. People were already tripping, laughing, giggling and shit. They lolled around on the ground, stared up at the ceiling, or danced in a sway like manner to the music pounding from the stereo. It was something old like The Who or Frank Zappa, something like that. Lou would know. He would know the band, the album, the song, the track of the song on the album, and the albums original release date. And if he really liked the band, he could probably name all the members, past and present.

Lou made his way over to me, but before I could ask him what band was playing, he spoke up, "Mike and me are ground control, dude," he pushed a can of soda in my hand and made a drinking motion as if to say 'bottom's up', then clapped a hand against my shoulder, smiling solemnly, "Forget about it, dude." I nodded, seeing that some of my other friends were already drinking from similar cans of soda, and well on their way to wasted.

I popped open the can, as Lou made his way over to the alcohol cabinet and Mike was dancing with his girlfriend with a bottle of Corona in his hand. I snorted lightly, shaking my head. Ground control my ass, I thought as I took a nice long swig. It took a moment, but the affect seemed instantaneous. The acid hit my system and soared through. The world seemed to fold, expand, and twist. It looked like I was staring out at a television set and someone was messing with the color control knobs, changing everything so that the sky outside the window was green, and my girlfriend who brushed past me and placed a kiss to my lips, was orange and bright pink. I took a few more drinks, and the music started to seep into my skin, the notes trickling along my veins and prancing on my bones and I swayed slightly to the music. What was I thinking about moments ago? What had I been so upset about? Did it even matter? It couldn't possibly, if I couldn't remember it at all. Hell, all I could think of at the moment was how giddy I felt and how everything seemed so funny.

Dancing seemed to be the best thing to do right now, and my girlfriend was more than willing to join me. I pushed her hair from her face, and she smiled a half-moon up at me. I kissed her, again, and again, covering her face and neck, and ears, pulling her close to me, my hands rested on her waist. Freezy Freeze eyes, lollipop hips, and bubblegum lips. The smell of candy and the beach. Laughing. She was laughing and I laughed too, and she trailed her finger over my cheek and said something.

"Reg," I replied lustily, and she gave me a strange look. Ice melting fire, and then it was replaced by glee, and she pranced off. A fairy trailing through the forest of swaying trees, wanting me to give chase. I tried to follow, but the sky was dark, and I lost interest, putting my hands in my pockets and shrugging because my shoulders hurt. Some sadness was creeping over my heart and I looked at the can still in my hand. The shit must not be working, I thought.

Everything seemed lonely, even the notes. The words pounding from the stereo. The walls were crying, and there were so many people. I couldn't see straight, and I tried to be Moses, parting the great sea of dancing bodies, but they wouldn't move. I blinked, wavered, took in the endless ocean of people and thought of surfing. If only there were some good waves. That was the problem with this place, the break was no good. It was edgy, uneven, always so goddamned choppy. You couldn't get a decent run to save your life.

I didn't feel buzzed. I didn't feel that airy, lightheaded, flying on clouds feeling that usually accompanied an acid trip. There was no poignant plucky Indian music, no Kaleidoscope swirl effect on the images flashing in front of me. I just felt quiet and strange, slightly sick to my stomach. I had a headache from the psychedelic rock that I didn't recognize, and the room was spinning in circles and diagonally.

I found something. Heard it with my fingers first, actually, crinkling against my skin. I pulled it out and stared at it. A bag of candy. I popped a few in my mouth, before stuffing the bag back in my pocket for later and washed it down with the soda in my hand. Candy sounded good at the moment, though I don't know why, and I couldn't remember where that candy had come from. Something inside of me was telling me I shouldn't have eaten it though, that I wasn't supposed to.

Then, suddenly, the world was white, bright white. The room, the people, the sky outside, was all blazing white. I blinked several times, or none at all, I couldn't tell because it was so bright. And then my whole body cracked, like I was one of those gargoyle things, and my whole body was covered in thin black cracks ready to scatter into a bazillion broken chunks of stone. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to hold myself together. Everyone was bumping against me, like they were trying to push me off the cliff, and I tried to scream at them, but my tongue had fallen out. It lay on the floor, flapping uselessly. I couldn't speak. No one would ever hear me again, because I couldn't speak. I no longer had a voice.

And I was alone, I realized. Who would help me? No one wanted to help me. Nobody would even know I needed help, because I couldn't talk. There was no one who would listen to a voiceless person. Nobody who would listen for my voice, listen to what I had to say. Nobody. I was a nobody in need of a nobody.

And suddenly an idea struck me, something I needed to do, and I stumbled through the crowd of people I half-recognized. I tapped Brent on the shoulder and he turned to look at me with a goofy grin on his face. There was a girl, in his arms, nibbling on his ear, and his teeth were all broken mirrors. I tried to see myself in them, but they reflected nothing.

"I need to use your phone," I said, and he nodded. He was the Mad Hatter, the girl was the March Hair.

_Why is a raven like a writing desk? _Hell if I know.

I was the rat in the tea pot.

_Twinkle, twinkle little bat…_

I made my way to the kitchen and found the beige telephone hanging on the wall. I picked the receiver up and dialed. I was walking through a labyrinth. Four times I got the wrong number, people who weren't very happy answered the phone and I promptly hung up on them. The goblin people. The fifth time a voice I thought I recognized filled my ear. I pulled back, because it sounded so close, and I thought it would sound farther away. I'd reached the center of the maze!

"Hello. Hello?"

"Yo," I replied, trying to seem cool, trying to lean against the counter, but slipping and falling on the floor.

"Maurice? That you? You okay?"

I broke into laughter that felt more like sobs.

"I need a journal," I stated flatly, and their was a brief silence on the other end.

"What's up?"

"Today," I started, dramatically, "is the last day. They're all standing back to back, and I'm facing forward…or backward…or upside down, or something. I don't like being here."

"Where are you? Come over to my house if you don't like it there." I was quiet, pretending to listen to my breathing. "…Maurice?"

"That's not my name." I heard a sharp intake of breath, and flinched away like it cut me. I wasn't speaking sense. My words were meaningless, flung out of my mouth like so much crap. "I can't breath anymore. I can't take it anymore. I don't like being here. I don't like being anywhere. I want it to stop sounding like the ocean. I want it to stop laughing. How come nobody ever gets what they want? I want to be nobody."

"Maurice, what are you talking about?"

"The town named for all the mad moves he was gonna do there," I cried desperately, trying to make this person on the other end understand. I was wet now, with ocean water, soaked from head to toe. Spinning beneath the surface, staring up at a contorted face, a clown's face, with wild hair and a painted on grin, "I'm drowning," I gasped, I was looking up over myself now, bobbing underwater, face upturned and eyes white, "I'm drowning…god, it hurts…it hurts so fucking much…it hurts so goddamned fucking much…"

"What? What hurts, Maurice? What's going on?"

I never heard anyone so frantic, so confused, so desperately panicked. It scared me and I slammed the phone back down on the cradle, staring down at it, the rattlesnake that was poised to strike me. I fell backwards, and scrambled to my feet. I stumbled back onto the counter, and pulled back in fear. Wriggling white bodies with eyeless faces stared up at me. My arm was decayed flesh and one jumped onto it, burrowing beneath the surface. People were laughing, and there was shouting somewhere, someone screaming. I scratched at the little mound beneath my skin, scratching and scratching, trying to stop it as it moved around and dug deeper. I was panting now, my scratching becoming more desperate until I cut through the flesh and blood and skin were curled beneath my nails. I looked up, wild eyed, and the crowd was still moving and swaying, oblivious. And there, in the back, it was huge. Black shaggy hair, deep yellow eyes, gnarling teeth. My chest rose and fell rapidly and I stumbled back, before racing away as fast as I could.

I was on the yellow brick road, and I trailed my fingers along the white-picket fence to keep from falling over. There was something looming over me. A dark shadow passing over my stomach, and laughing that wouldn't leave my ears. My name. They were calling my name, and laughing.

"_Twister…what a lame-o!" _they laughed, "_Twister beefed it…what a kook!_"

"Shut up," I screamed, slamming my fist into their invisible faces to silence them, but they kept laughing, "Shut up! Fuck you! Shut up!"

I jerked as pain shot up my arm and stared down at the maggot that was digging deeper into my flesh. It was splitting in half now, splitting into more and they were all digging into me. I fell against the wall, scratching, trying to get them.

"Get out of me," I screamed.

"_Twister…what a jerk…Twister…I hate you…_"

"No…" I moaned, but resolved, crumbling into a thousand little pieces of dust and ash, "I know…I hate me too…"

-0-0-

Doug-E frowned at the partial orgy occurring in the living room. As soon as Maurice had hung up, he'd checked his caller ID and determined it to be Brent's number. He didn't waste any time getting to the rich boy's house. It wasn't his party, he reminded himself looking out at the wasted teenagers sprawled out haphazardly, wasn't his house. Trix was laughing with Steve, practically on top of the young man. He wasn't complaining. Jordan was braced beside the radio saying something about the music vibrations and colors. Brent was lying on the floor licking an empty beer can. Mike was on the couch, his girlfriend beside him giggling her head off while examining her nails. Mike was half-watching television, half-watching the partiers. Lou was sitting on the kitchen counter, watching nothing and sipping his beer.

"Where's Maurice?" Doug-E called over the blaring music and uproarious laughter of the teens on their trips. They stared at him for a long time, trying to figure out when he got there. Finally, maybe deciding he must have been there the whole time and they didn't see him before, Mike shrugged and Lou motioned down the hall. Doug-E moved to look, his heart nearly missing a beat. Maurice wasn't there. But there was a great deal of blood. Lou hopped from the counter, and Mike crossed to stand beside Doug-E.

"Holy shit," Mike mumbled, "Is that…?"

"Stay here," Doug-E commanded, beginning down the hall. Mike and Lou moved to follow, "Stay the fuck with the others!" They stopped, watching enviously but doing as they were told. Doug-E followed the hall down to Brent's bedroom. The door was cracked open. He pushed it all the way open, walking in reluctantly. It was trashed, things strewn about, clothing covering the un-vacuumed floor, empty glasses lining the dresser, the mirror was smudged with something, but Doug-E didn't want to ponder what it might be.

Maurice was squatting on the ground, his breathing sharp, his eyes wide. His hands and arms were covered in blood, as was his throat, his legs, his clothes. He was digging his finger nails into his already shredded forearm. Blood was trailing down from the corner of his mouth. Doug-E could only assess that Maurice had chewed through something, whether it was his tongue, or the inside of his cheek was another matter.

"Maurice, cut it out," Doug-E snapped, trying to hide the fear edging his voice while bending to grab the younger man's hands. The boy jerked, suddenly panicked.

"Stay the fuck away," he spat angrily. His voice was shrill, desperate, on the verge of a sob, "Just back the fuck away from me!" Doug-E nodded, holding his hands up, moving back a pace, "It won't…I can't get it out…it's inside me, I can't get it out…"

"What?" Doug-E questioned softly, "What is?"

"I can't…I don't know," Maurice whimpered, and then, his voice became eerily child-like, "I beefed it…I'm sorry, man…I just can't do it like you."

"Beefed what? Maurice, what are you talking about?" Doug-E was trembling. He'd been on bad trips, he'd seen people on bad trips. He knew what could happen, he knew how terrifying it could get. And still, he didn't know what to do. He knew it was pointless to try and make sense of anyone who was on an acid high, but he had to distract the redhead so that maybe he could get close enough.

"The Squid beefed it too, though," Maurice continued, shaking violently. He was back at his arms, clawing at them, spitting out a clump of blood and coughing.

"Oh shit," a voice whispered from the door and Doug-E turned. Mike was standing there pale as a ghost, Lou at his back watching silently. Lou had seen bad trips before, but it would be Mike's first.

"Get out of here," Doug-E yelled, "Go back with the others! _Go, now!_ Lou, get him the fuck out of here!"

"Fuck you all," Maurice cried, "She didn't care! The Squid was fucking fine! She could have asked me! You laughed, you all fucking laughed!"

"Doug-E, what are you gonna do?" Mike demanded, frantic, "Doug-E? What's wrong with him?"

"Go the fuck away, Mike," Doug-E shouted, "Lou! Lou, I fucking need you to do this! Get Mike the fuck out of here! I don't need his crybaby shit right now, I got to deal with this!" Lou nodded, grabbing a hold of Mike.

"What are you gonna do, man?" Lou asked, his voice a quaver, his eyes never leaving Maurice. Doug-E knew what the other boy was feeling. Neither had ever seen Maurice on a bad trip before. They'd been under the delusion that he probably didn't have them. He'd always seemed too level-headed, too solid. Untouchable, was the word.

"I got to get him out of here," Doug-E mumbled, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck, and looking fearfully to Maurice, "He looks like he's coke bugging. But he's not freaking yet."

"He looks like he already has," Lou commented, "Why didn't we hear him?"

"What's going on with him?" Mike persisted, "What's wrong with him? Why's he…"

"Get lost, Mike," Doug-E interrupted sharply, "I don't know, Lou. Stay and watch the others. I'm getting him out of here."

"Where you gonna take him, dude?" Lou questioned, fervent.

"I don't know, alright. I'll figure it out," Doug-E muttered, "Just get lost." Lou nodded, dragging Mike back down to the party. There was more laughter and Maurice let out an anguished cry.

"Fuck it," he whispered, and Doug-E took a deep breath. He grabbed Maurice by the bicep gingerly, pulling the younger boy to his feet. There was no protest. Doug-E half-dragged, half-lead the drugged redhead out of the room and down the hall. He ducked into the front entryway, making to open the door. Suddenly, Maurice lashed out, jerking away and shouting, "Fuck," before slamming his fist through the front window. Silence wafted through the party room.

Pieces of glass shattered and flew. Doug-E watched, terrified as Maurice put his other hand through the remaining pieces of the window. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion, and Doug-E sprung forward to grab Maurice, dragging him the rest of the way from the house. The boy's hands were split, small shards of glass evidently buried in his flesh, and they were covered in blood. He struggled against Doug-E, screaming obscenities, yelling and crying about something being in him. Something he couldn't get out. Something he had to get out.

Doug-E fumbled with his car keys, opening the passenger side door and pushing Maurice in. He ran to the driver's side, sliding in and buckling his seat belt. His hands were shaking and he struggled to put the key in the ignition. He tore from the driveway, down the road.

"I don't want to, Otto," Maurice sobbed, looking to Doug-E with tear-filled eyes, "I can't do it. I can't do things like you…I'm not as good…why can't you just understand that…I'm never gonna be like you…"

"_Who _is Otto?" Doug-E demanded, but he knew better than to expect an answer.

"This cast itches," Maurice pouted, scratching at his arms again, "It hurt…it fucking hurt. Stop laughing, Otto…just stop fucking laughing at me…"

"Maurice, cut this shit out…please?"

"No! Fuck you, you're always laughing at me! I know I beefed it, Otto, but so did the Squid! Why do you always have to fucking bust on me?" Maurice persisted and Doug-E frowned, heart pounding in his chest, "Nobody asks me. I broke my fucking wrist, but nobody asks me! I fucking beefed harder than the Squid, but everyone laughs at me! I can't even fucking cry…and…you all…it fucking itches."

"Maurice…"

"No, Otto, fuck you."

"Dude, I'm not Otto! Maurice, it's me, it's Doug-E," he slammed the car's brakes at the red light, turning to grab Maurice by the neck and turn the boy's head towards him. The younger boy's eyes were glazed over, he had a smudge of blood on his cheek, and his pupils were like saucers, "I need you to fucking snap out of it!"

Maurice tugged away, and the light turned green. He whimpered, touching his head, before banging it against the window. Doug-E took a deep breath, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white, concentrating on driving further.

"No," Maurice mumbled, banging his head once more, scratching his arm, sobbing, "No. No. No…" he stopped, laying his head against the glass, "I'm okay…I'm okay…I'm okay…I'm…"

Doug-E glanced wearily to the younger boy. Maurice's hands lay in his lap, trembling, there was a puddle of blood as well. Some of it was drying, some of it was fresh, bright. He kept whispering, insisting, but the words sounded forced, fake. Wherever he was, and right there in that moment, in both places, he was not okay.

-0-0-

Lars trekked down the sidewalk, trash bag in hand. He lifted the lid of the can, tossing it in and glancing Reggie and Sam sitting around the Rockets' half-pipe. They were chatting in silent whispers, and Sam seemed to be torn between wanting to take Reggie's hand and not knowing if he should. Otto was at the top, skateboarding, pulling off some ridiculously well maneuvered stunts. Even in the dark he had impressive skills. It was obvious the well-known Rocket boy had no problems with Sam and his sister's flirtations.

Lars shook his head, snorting. There was a time his little brother would have been over there, laughing and skateboarding on the half pipe as well. But as to where Maurice was at that moment, Lars didn't know.

He began back up towards his house, when the screech of a car startled him. The old junker sputtered to a halt in front of the Rodriguez house, and the driver door flung open. Lars watched in confusion. He saw the slick form jump from the driver's seat and frowned. He didn't know the guy's name, but he knew it was one of Maurice's loser friends.

"What the fuck do you want?" Lars began, but the boy disregarded him, frantically making his way to the passenger side door and flinging it open. Lars gaped as Maurice all but tumbled out into the other boy's arms.

The boy dragged Maurice from the car, and the first thing Lars noticed was all the blood. He felt sick, overcome with nausea. It looked to be all his little brother's blood. The boy brought Maurice to his feet, and the redhead stirred, pushing at the other boy in half anger.

"…fuck off me," he hissed, his words slurred. He stumbled to the ground, attempted to pull himself up. He staggered up the lawn, swayed, bent over and threw up, mostly clumps of blackish red blood. Lars gaped, utterly speechless. From the corner of his eye he saw the Rockets and Sam watching. Reggie had stood up, most likely to get a better view, her hand brought up to her mouth in horror, and Otto had paused at the top of the half pipe, skateboard in hand. They were openly staring.

"What's wrong with him?" Lars, finally finding his voice, demanded of the boy, who stood pale by his car watching Maurice with a softened gaze. He flickered a glance Lars's way, sniffing.

"He's…he's riding a bad trip," the boy explained quietly, as though expecting Lars to understand.

"What does that mean?" Lars pressed, his voice a shrill shout, "What the fuck does that mean?"

"Shut the fuck up!" Maurice cried so suddenly it cut through the night like a knife and seemed to silence even the crickets. He clutched at his head, stumbling backwards and nearly tripping over his own feet, he was squeezing his eyes shut, "Just stop it! I can't…I can't hear…" he dug his fingers into his already torn open forearm, "It's itching…it itches…this damn cast itches…"

"He dropped the acid about an hour ago. I don't know how much he took, but it should be over soon," the boy mumbled, giving Maurice a wary glance before heading back to his car, "I have to go…please…I didn't know what to do."

"Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do? _He was dropping acid_?" Lars snarled, "What do I do?"

"I don't know," the boy cried, "I have to go…take care of him…" He slipped in the car, sending one last look Maurice's way before tearing off down the road. Lars reeled on his little brother, moving forward to grab the bloodied boy. Maurice jerked away, shoving him.

"I'm not a fucking joke," he roared, "You're always fucking laughing at me! All of you! Nobody fucking cared! I fell and no one fucking cared! No one even asked me if I was okay…you could of asked if I was okay! But you didn't…so fuck you, Otto! Fuck all of you!"

"Maurice," Lars whispered, glancing over his shoulder to see if their onlookers had heard. Otto had turned back to the half pipe. He was unreadable. Reggie had bowed her head, wrapped her arms about herself, and Sam was wide-eyed, his jaw dropped. They'd heard.

"I'm okay," Maurice mumbled, sinking to the ground, crying, sounding anything but. His whole body was shaking. Lars stepped forward, taking Maurice into his arms, and gently leading him to the house. He was mortified, embarrassed. The lights in their neighbors' houses had turned on, people were coming out to see what the commotion was. To see his drugged out brother. He couldn't even think about what they'd be saying in the morning.

Lars shut the door behind him, locking it and taking his little brother up the stairs to the bathroom. He set the young boy on the toilet, lid down, and turned the water on in the tub. Maurice was complacent, his eyes shut, and Lars thought for a moment he had passed out. But his lips were moving, and he continued to run his fingers along his torn flesh though he no longer appeared to be trying to do further damage. Lars let the water heat up, tugging his brother's shirt off and then his shoes and socks. He set the small boy up, wincing at how light and thin Maurice felt - why hadn't he noticed how much weight his little brother had lost? - and undid the boy's shorts, tugging them off. He plugged the tub up, the water at the right heat, and slipped Maurice in. Tenderly, Lars laid his brother's head back to rest against the edge of the tub, running his hand over the younger boy's red hair.

Lars rummaged through the cabinet, easily finding the first aid kit and setting it up on the sink counter. He returned to his brother. The water in the tub had turned red. He emptied it, turning on the shower head and rinsing off the rest of the smaller boy's body before wrapping him in a towel and pulling him from the tub. He set Maurice back up on the toilet. Fresh blood was resurfacing to close up the wounds. Maurice had clawed through his forearms and wrists, they were roughly gashed in long lines evidently where his fingernails had dug in. There were pieces of glass in his knuckles, barbed in his palms and prickled in little pieces up the rest of his arms. Lars took the tweezers first, working at removing the glass.

"What have you done to yourself?" he whispered, his words choked. His heart was pounding, as he wrapped bandages around Maurice's arms, wrists, and knuckles. Tentatively, he opened Maurice's mouth, discovering a pool of blood. He mopped it out with a tissue, tracing the source to be a deep hole in Maurice's tongue. Sickly, Lars realized, the younger boy appeared to have nearly chewed it half-way through. Lars frowned. There wasn't much he could do about the conclave but it seemed to have stopped bleeding.

Lars lifted Maurice up, taking him down the hall to his little brother's bedroom. It was a mess, and Lars nearly tripped several times before he finally laid the younger boy to rest in the crumpled bed. He tugged the comforter over Maurice's naked body, before backing up and slumping down on the floor, staring wide eyed at his brother's silent form.

"I'm okay…" Maurice whispered.

Lars could hear sharp breaths and a heart pounding. They were his own. He broke down, tears cascading down his cheeks, and he shook with erratic sobs. And Maurice was oblivious, mumbling in a half-sleep. What had happened to his little brother? What had become of the innocent wide-eyed boy Lars had cherished and tormented all at once? He knew Maurice had smoked weed, but acid was another story. The whole event had him shell shocked. He didn't know what to do.

No. Lars licked his bottom lip, salty. He did know what to do. He just didn't know if he could bring himself to do it. He shook his head, looking down and was surprised to find his hands and shirt stained with blood. His brother's blood. As if in a flash, everything suddenly hit him. The fact that he didn't know where his brother had been, all the times he'd never known where his brother had been, the yelling, the things Maurice had said, the things Maurice had done, the blood, the gaping wounds inflicted by Maurice himself, the boy who Lars didn't even know the name of, the notion that his brother had been dropping acid. Dropping acid. That was LSD, right? LSD was a hard drug. LSD messed a person up far more than marijuana. People died from taking LSD, even once, right? Maurice could have died that night. Lars took a deep, shaky breath. His little brother, his little baby brother, could have died that night.

And like that, it didn't seem so hard. Lars knew what he had to do. And he knew, without a doubt, he could go through with it that night if he had the chance.

* * *

END A/N: Originally this chapter was titled "Rock Bottom" but I decided against it for a few reasons. Anyways, I loved Lars in this chapter personally. And the Alice in Wonderland reference reminded me of when my cousin and I baked this cake (for no real reason) and bought birthday candles and frosting to write on it, "Happy Un-Birthday", and her friend came over and we each lit a candle on it and blew it out. It was awesome! Yeah...that's how my cousin and I pass the time...

Anyways, notes on this chapter: I've never dropped acid, so I don't know what a trip or even a bad trip would be like. Originally I wasn't even going to do this from Maurice's point of view for a few reasons I don't feel like going into. I decided to do it, though, because I wanted the personal touch to the chapter. I do, however, know that LSD can be taken in different ways, dissolved in soda is one of them. Now, for the few terms;

ground control-slang for a person or people who watch over others on their trip to make sure they don't hurt themselves or whatever. Lou and Mike, obviously, didn't do a great job.

Trip/bad trip-if you don't know what these are, but I'm assuming you all do...a trip is slang to describe the feeling/high you get from taking drugs. A bad trip would be a bad experience on the high usually plagued with hallucinations and such.

coke-bugging: Slang to describe the hallucinations, usually of insects and such, that users see while drugged out on a bad trip.

That's all. Please excuse any grammatical and typing errors. _**REVIEW**_! And, thanks for reading.


	7. Lies the Truth

A/N: I actually wasn't going to update this until I finished the eleventh chapter (which I haven't finished). I'm having trouble with it. Outright struggling is more like it. It's from Otto's perspective, and I have to admit, Otto is the hardest character for me to write. Bastard, making me struggle. Anyways, I figured I'd made you all wait long enough...but don't expect the next chapter for a _very, very, **very**_ long time. I have a lot of shit to get together, a lot of fanfics to wrap up, and this is last on my to-do list. Not that I don't plan on keeping up with this one. It's one of my favorite fics right now, actually.

Moving on. Thanks for all the wonderful reviews ya'll. I plan on going through a replying to everyone using the nifty "reply" function. So, if you didn't log in, chances are you won't get a reply. So thanks so very much for your review!

Gah! I love Nirvana! One of my favorite bands...The song for the next chapter borrows lyrics from this song. Points to whoever can guess what the song for the next chapter will be!

ENJOY!

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Chapter 7: Lies the Truth 

_Come, as you are_

_As you were, as I want you to be_

_As a friend, as a friend_

_As an old enemy_

_Take your time, hurry up_

_The choice is yours, don't be late_

_Take a rest_

_As a friend, as an old memoria_

-Nirvana, "Come As You Are"

Lars had never noticed so blatantly how rarely his parents were home as he did that day while he paced nervously the living room floor. They'd never come home that night, and when he'd called his father's office, he'd gotten a short reply from the late night secretary snapping, "he's in a meeting". He'd slammed the phone down, and only then did he realize it was four in the morning, what kind of meeting would his father be in? Now it was Sunday afternoon, and neither parent had returned as of yet. Didn't they both have Sundays off?

He tried to sit, lifted himself up, went back to pacing. He tried to figure out what he would say, tried to be happy his parents weren't home yet, as it would give him plenty of time to figure out how he would approach the subject. But he wasn't happy. With each minute that ticked by, he became more frantic, more anxious, more agitated. He paused, in the middle of the floor, closed his eyes tight and ran his hands over his face.

"Mom, dad," he said in a low whisper, "Maurice could have died last night."

He sighed, collapsing on the couch and staring up to the ceiling. He hadn't realized how hard it was going to be. The night before, staring at Maurice's trembling sleeping form, he had been so gung-ho about telling his parents. He was ready to race down the stairs the minute they walked through the door and clobber them with the news. Now…now he was having second thoughts about even telling them.

"Maybe I could talk to him," Lars mused, "Maybe I could give him the D.A.R.E. lecture and he'll stop all this shit." Lars chuckled slightly, then broke into a full laugh. He knew if he didn't laugh, he would bawl his eyes out. The ridiculousness of that thought was more than he could bare. His brother was in deep, last night was more than evident of that, and no amount of "Just Say No" would curve him back on the right track.

Lars gradually fell silent, staring up at the white ceiling with a blank expression. He felt like he'd aged twenty years that night. All of Maurice's frailties had come to light so blazingly to Lars as his brother lolled in his arms, coughed up chunks of blood, and left a crimson red ring in the bathtub. How come, Lars scolded himself, how come he hadn't noticed how thin, how sick, how scraggily and weak his brother had gotten. How distant and deranged. He was supposed to be older. Big brother, protector and caretaker. Their parents weren't around, he was supposed to watch Maurice. He'd failed. He'd messed up. He'd let his little brother fall behind, he let his little brother get lost along the way.

Lars had hated to admit it, when they were younger, but he was jealous of Maurice in a way he never understood. The younger boy had so much talent and promise and potential. That's what all the teachers would say to his parents. "He has the potential to be something amazing," they would say as they discussed the younger boy's latest failing grade, "but he doesn't try." They would show his parents doodles he'd do on the desk or on his notes and homework, video projects that blew other kids' work out of the water, an obvious perception that went beyond anything the other kids were even capable of. He was intelligent, it was undoubted. One teacher was adamant that Maurice should be put in more advanced classes, honors classes even. But the councilor recommended that he go into remedial and special ed, and their parents were reluctant, but agreed.

Lars had laughed back then. Maurice, in advanced classes? It had to be some sort of joke. He'd even called the teacher an idiot. Now he wondered, what if that teacher had got her way and Maurice was in the advanced classes? Would Maurice have fallen away from his old friends? Would he be the mess he is now?

A bright memory, shined in the back of his mind, of a Sand Castle Tournament that Maurice had entered with his friends, the Rocket siblings and the Squid. Lars, with his cronies Pi and Sputz, had stood on the Pier watching the competition and wishing they were out on the waves, as the beach had been closed that afternoon for the Sand Castle building. Lars had spotted his younger brother, and been surprised. But he'd thought nothing of it, walking the length of the beach and picking on younger kids that got in his way. It wasn't until later that day when Maurice came running up to him that he became involved.

It had probably been Maurice's passion that Lars had envied the most. His ability to show his emotions, to plead with an older brother for help, even if his cries seemed to fall on deaf ears. He would give up his dignity, throw himself prostrate to shame, all for one moment, to save his sand structure just long enough for it to be admired and seen and to fulfill its purpose. He had been such a sweet kid, and Lars didn't realize how important that was to him until that boy was gone.

_I don't know what I was thinking_. Those words had stuck with Lars that day, until the last minute, when he broke and led his friends to hold the tide water back as the judges snapped a picture of the kids' work of art, or Maurice's was more like it. It didn't take a genius to figure out that Maurice was the craftsman behind that near-perfect replica of the Ocean Shores Pier.

Lars frowned. Where had that kid gone, with those bright eyes and wild imagination. That little boy could build cities from sand and no one ever knew.

He went away, Lars lamented, and he's never coming back.

-0-0-

Otto stumbled down the stairs, nearly knocked down as he collided with his father who easily caught him.

"Whoa, Rocket boy," Ray cried, setting his son back on balance, "Where's the fire?" He frowned then, placing a hand over Otto's forehead, "You feel alright? You look sick…and it's well past noon, are you just waking up?"

"I'm fine, Raymundo," Otto mumbled, swatting his father's hand away and pushing his way past, "There any breakfast left?"

"Uh…no, I think your sister cleared it all away. Drop by the Shore Shack, though, and I'm sure Tito won't mind grilling you something to eat."

"Sure thing, dad. Nothing like a Shack Burger for breakfast…"

"What are your plans today?" Ray asked casually, leaning against the banister and peering curiously down at his son.

"I don't know," Otto shrugged, "Well…now…drop by the Shack," he forced a grin and his father nodded with a slight smirk, "I'll probably hang with Jamal at Madtown, and…uh…what are you looking at me like that for?" Ray had lost all signs of pleasantness and cheer from his face, his forehead had tensed and his eyes had hardened.

"Conroy called."

Otto groaned, slumping against the wall and glaring up at his father, sneering, "And what did he say?" Ray took a deep breath.

"Now, Otto, I have always instilled in you to be the bigger man in situations like that…"

"Dad," Otto squawked, "You weren't there, alright! You didn't hear what he said about Reggie! Or what he said about Sam! Or what he did to both of them!"

"Regardless, son," Ray interjected, taking a serious tone, "You know better than swinging punches. You should have gone to Conroy if you were having trouble with this other boy. He said he didn't want to have to, but you're suspended from Madtown for a week."

"_What?_" Otto cried, "That's not fair, dad! I didn't do anything, it was that lame-o…"

"Did you or did you not punch him first?"

"It doesn't matter! He was being a jerk…"

"_Regardless_, Otto," Ray snapped, "You have to demonstrate that you can rise above that kind of behavior. There were children there and you didn't set a very good example for them."

"Trust me, dad," Otto sneered, "Punching that jerk _was _rising above it."

"Otto…" Ray sighed, feeling any slight anger fizzle as he looked down at his impertinent son. There was so much of him in that younger boy he didn't know whether to swell with pride or lay awake worrying at night, "I know you think you were doing the right thing…but…this was a situation you should have let Conroy handle. Conroy could have called the kid's parents and then between the three of them they could have decided an appropriate disciplinary action and…"

"Jesus Christ, dad," Otto growled, slamming his fist against the wall behind him, "You're starting to sound like _them_. Listen to me, none of that would have worked! His parents don't seem to give a shit what he does! I mean, he went to jail for beating Josh to a bloody pulp and he was hanging at Madtown the _very next day_. His parents didn't do anything about that, what makes you think they'd do anything about him shoving a girl and vandalizing another kid's property? I mean, jeez, I used to think they cared…but now…they let him run around and do whatever the hell he wants. I never thought I'd see the day where I'd rather hang out with his older brother than him…"

"Alright, I think I'm getting the…" Ray scrunched his nose, "Wait a minute…who are we…who we talking about here, kid?"

"Conroy didn't tell you?" Otto cried in exasperation, "Maurice!"

"Maurice…as in…Maurice Rodriguez?" Ray questioned. Otto nodded incredulously and Ray sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He sat down on the steps of the stairs and motioned for his son to follow suit. Otto reluctantly did so. "Talk to me, Otto. I know that kids grow apart…but…talk to me. What's going on between you and Twister?" Otto bolted to his feet before he could control himself.

"_Maurice_, Raymundo. He goes by _Maurice_, now," Otto snapped, trembling with inexplicable rage, "And what's there to talk about? The fact he's a total lame-o? The fact he thinks he's top dog and treats everyone around him like shit? I don't care what happens to him. I hope he gets sent to juvie until he's twenty-one! It's where he belongs. And me, punching him, is what he deserved. And if Conroy hadn't stepped in, I would have given him a lot more of what he deserved.

"And don't bother feeding me that bullshit about how me and him used to be _best bros_, and had been since we were in diapers, so I should show a little compassion or something stupid like that! Because I don't give a shit what he does, I don't care about him. He's a traitor, dad, and don't bother giving me a lame speech about how 'kids grow apart, it's only natural', because we didn't grow apart. He pushed me and the rest of us, Reg and Sam and all, into the gravel and trampled all over us and stabbed us in the back repeatedly. So he can go to hell, alright? For all I care, he can go to hell!"

Otto made to rush out the door, but his father's voice calling his name brought him to a halt and he stood with his back to the stairs shaking uncontrollably.

"I know it's difficult losing someone who was such a big part of your life, son," Ray whispered, "I know you're frustrated, and you don't understand. I'm not going to ask you to show compassion, and I'm not going to tell you that it's natural for kids to grow apart. Truth is, I want you to stay away from him, go out of your way if you have to. I just don't want you getting mixed into a feud with him," Ray sighed, lowering his eyes to stare at his hands sprawled out over his knees, "I never thought that he'd fall into that kind of crowd. I'd always thought he was such a good kid…but…I heard about last night from Paula and…I don't want you or Reg anywhere near him. I don't know what he's into, though I can take a few unkind guesses, I don't want you two around it. If he's in your way, go around. If he's hanging out where you wanted to hang out, go somewhere else. If he's trying to provoke you into some sort of conversation or argument, walk away. I know you can be a little hotheaded," Ray chuckled slightly and it sounded a bit pained, "It runs in the family…but you got to let it go, son. It'll be hard…but just…ignore him. I'm going to talk to Reg about this later, I know Sam's mom is telling him the same thing. I'll talk to Jamal's and Eddie's parents, and I know Josh's parents will tell him the same."

"Are they going to press charges?" Otto questioned, peeking at his father, who seemed to look almost defeated on those steps.

"I don't know. I think they talked to Raul and decided against it depending on what measures the Rodriguezes decide to take in punishing Maurice," Ray answered solemnly, "I want you to understand. He needs help, Otto, and I don't know if he's going to get it. I don't want to say that Raul and Sandy are bad parents…but it's hard to admit when your kid's in trouble." Otto nodded, slowly.

"Can I go now, dad?" he asked carefully.

"Yeah, sure. Where you gonna be?"

"I'll pick up something to eat from Tito, and then I think I'll head to the beach," Otto answered carefully. His father gave a grunt of approval and he slipped from the house.

Otto jogged down the street from their cul-de-sac, slowing in his sprint as he passed the Rodriguez house and studying it. He came to a halt, staring up at the large two story building, weatherworn and sun beaten. He knew he could point out, without even having to look, the exact location of Maurice's bedroom window. They'd had shouted conversations from their bedroom windows when they were grounded and unable to use the telephone almost every other week growing up. They'd snuck out of bedroom windows in the middle of the night to meet and do some midnight shredding at Madtown, and Otto had stayed the night so many times in that house, he'd been to that bedroom so many times, he could point it out.

He didn't even know what the room looked like now. It had been almost three years since he'd stepped foot inside that room, let alone the Rodriguez house. A tie-dyed blanket in reggae colors of bright red, green, and yellow was draped over the window now blocking visibility inside. It had never been covered even with blinds before. He'd wondered when that blanket had gone up. He'd never noticed it before, but realized, it had been there a long while. When had it become natural to see that brightly colored rug instead of the room beyond?

Otto sighed, his eyes falling back down and they paused on the lawn, where Maurice had thrown up the night before. It appeared that someone, Lars most likely, had attempted to clean the vomit up. But the chunks of blackening crimson red were still there and Otto was suddenly overwhelmed with nausea. Was that blood?

_…so fuck you, Otto, fuck all of you._

Otto shook his head, dreadlocks flung wildly about. He took a deep breath, trying to shake that image from his mind. He'd never seen anyone look so feral, so dangerous and insane. Otto had been scared. He couldn't even begin to explain the fear that had gripped his heart that night. He'd tried to hate that boy. That tall, lanky, intimidating and sharp featured creature that had replaced his childhood best friend. But all he ever felt was disgusted…sick and disgusted. And, to his dissatisfaction, sad. He'd tried to chase memories from his head, that flashed in front of his eyes of a smiling redhead in a yellow striped cap, grinning stupidly and shredding with the rest of them at Madtown, Spray Beach, chilling out and eating at the Shack, laughing between classes. It didn't work. Twister was a ghost that would probably haunt Otto the rest of his life.

He took a deep breath, continuing down the street at a slower pace. He could have sworn he saw, for a moment, the multi-colored blanket ruffle, flutter, as though someone had peeked out them, but he decided it was probably just his imagination playing tricks on him.

Where had things gone wrong, he wondered. Was it in Maurice, all that time, to become like this? Was it like an insect…a parasite growing in the pit of his heart, even when they were children laughing and playing and all that shit, that one day consumed Maurice entirely? Were there signs, Otto wondered? Could he have known, if he'd paid more attention, that Maurice was going to turn bad?

Otto clenched his jaw, trying to loosen the tensed muscles in his shoulders and arms. Looking back on everything, it had seemed to happen so fast. One minute they were best bros, the next minute it was like he was looking in on Maurice's life, like Maurice was in a little snow globe and he could shake it up every now and then, but he couldn't reach in and directly affect anything. He wasn't a part of the snowy scenery. But it hadn't happened that quickly, had it? Did it happen at all? Otto would wake up in the middle of the night sometimes, drenched in sweat and be completely convinced that the past few years had been nothing but a bad nightmare and that in the morning he would walk with Twister to school with Sam and Reggie and they'd all be laughing, off in their own extreme sports world the way they had been in childhood. But then he would see that every picture, the framed group shot on his bed stand, the various wallet sized unframed freeze-frames of their youthful faces tucked neatly into his vanity mirror, every evidence of Maurice having been in Otto's life, all of it was gone, shoved into the back of his closet where all of his skeletons resided with his fashion mistakes and realize that it was, indeed, all very real. It had happened, and last night had happened, and…it was beginning to seem that maybe those memories he had of their blissful childhood were the things that never happened.

He fought the urge to run. To just bolt. To run from that cul-de-sac, down the block, down the California incline, up the Pier, up on the beach to the side of the highway as cars sped past. To just run for it, to no where in particular, some unknown, unseen, abstract destination far off at the edge of the earth. Freedom, he wanted to call it. But it wasn't really freedom, it was just escape.

He needed to do something, anything, to burn off that energy. Adrenaline was flowing freely through his bloodstream now and he felt every bit the raging hormonal teenager he was supposed to be. He wanted to fly in the powder blue clouds with the birds, to race across the translucent horizon with the dolphins, scream out atop the silent mountains and declare to the world that he was alive and vigorous and healthy and…purposeless.

He began walking up the street again, kicking a piece of chipped off gravel and watching it roll haplessly forward before catching up to it and giving it another half-hearted kick.

He wanted to distance himself from everything around him. Close his eyes and crawl back into the womb of innocence. He wasn't ready to grow up in the real world. He wanted just a few more days, a few more years of utopian ignorance before he had to face the cruelty of harsh reality.

He sighed, shivering though it was almost ninety degrees outside.

High school seemed like a scary place. Freshman year was stumbling about blindly, trying to find something solid to stand upon. To get a hold of yourself, get your bearings straight, scramble to position yourself, to adjust for what was to come. Sophomore year was more secure. It was about fun, or trying to look like you were having fun. It was about getting a driver's license, getting a job for extra cash, and trying to act as though you like the friends you have even though they're just as fake as you. Junior year was an acrobatic experience, and Senior year was the ascent into adulthood. No bars held, no turning back, this is your life get used to it, nudged out of the nest, better open your wings or splat on the ground, adulthood.

Otto shivered again. Realizing, he'd never thought about the future seriously before. But something inside him seemed hollow, blackened. He'd never thought that the first time he considered his future, Maurice wouldn't be in it.

Somehow, though he couldn't explain it and he hated to think it, that one fact seemed so much more scarier than whatever was to come.

-0-0-

Reggie mumbled a "thank-you"as Sam handed over her large coke, the lid already punctured with a straw. He took a seat next to her on the bench and began to work on prying open his bag of cotton candy. She let the cup set on her bare knee, hunching her shoulders and brushing the loose baby strands of hair from her eyes as she scanned the horizon of surfers and haze for anyone she knew. She thought she recognized a few people, but couldn't be too certain as they all looked like nothing more than tiny specks on the vast ocean.

She shuddered, when Sam's arm slipped around the back of her shoulders and he flinched away, muttering an apology. She didn't even think to tell him he needn't be sorry and that he could put his arm around her if he liked. They sat in silence. She casually sipped her soda and gazed straight forward through the crowd of locals and the random tourist here and there at the distant ocean and he munched on his cotton candy, drank his own soda, and eyed passer-bys as though daring them to say something. They'd met nearly a half-hour ago at the well-known Pier Amusement Park, and most of their date had been spent in awkward silence. Neither knew what to talk about.

Reggie knew Sam's mind was on his project. He'd mentioned it a few times, though not conversationally, and he was constantly flipping his cell phone open and typing in Oliver's number, though never dialing. He hadn't yet broken the news to his fellow RPG makers that their long-time effort of early mornings and late nights was now two shiny boomerangs. Reggie couldn't even make the attempt to talk about the whole ordeal. Her mind was on Maurice.

Sub-consciously she brought a hand up to touch the shoulder, where his hand had roughly connected as he pushed her away. As though the event had happened right then, fresh anger shot through her body and she bit back tears, chewing on her tongue to remind herself not to get too emotional over something so stupid.

_My name is Maurice, babe, and you are…?_ He'd said it so spitefully, and that smile, as though he were enjoying every minute of the pain and embarrassment he was so obviously causing her. The way his so-called friends laughed, and egged him on made her sick to the stomach. Jeering at her and belittling Sam. How could he disregard them so casually? How could he let his friends treat them so badly? Did those six, maybe seven years of friendship just slip from his memory with the flick of a hand? And then there was the way he stared her down.

She blushed suddenly at the memory. Her anger seemed to fade away as she recalled his eyes burning into hers. The intensity of those eyes! God! It was like being dragged into a whirlpool, unable to pull herself out. Just spinning deeper and deeper inside. It wasn't like they say in cheap grocery store Romance novels and spiritual books. It wasn't like looking into his soul. In fact, it was like he was taking her soul. In bits and pieces.

She'd felt as though she were falling apart in front of him. She didn't know how long she could have stood there, as she'd already felt her legs giving out beneath her. What had happened to the Rocket strength? Where was the Reginator? No where. She didn't exist. There was just Regina, crumbling like sheetrock. She knew, she just knew with every fiber of her being, she'd been mere moments from curling up into a ball on the ground and crying like a little girl.

Don't look at me like that, the little voice inside of her had said to him. Pleading like a little child.

God. She hated him for making her feel that way. Like a little child. A little girl. Helpless and weak and small.

He'd been so close to her, she could smell him. Sweet and musky. Like alcohol, cigarette smoke, and boy. And for some reason it had made her giddy and lightheaded and her chest had convulsed like she was about to have a seizure.

She looked ashamed at her fingers curled, her hand lying uselessly in her lap. The first thing she'd noticed that day as they stood inches apart was his intense look. Heat rushed to her cheeks and her stomach and chest, and her legs felt numb. She chewed the inside of her cheek, battling with herself, until she finally felt as though she would burst and released a deep sigh that resolved her emotions and she took a long drink from her soda. Maybe… for a fleeting moment… as his eyes and body and scent and voice overwhelmed her senses… she may have…just maybe…for a small fraction of a moment…for just a teensy spec of time… found him undeniably sexy.

With that self-admittance, Reggie trembled almost uncontrollably, taking small breaths and trying to compose herself. She felt her whole being collapse and considered crying for a good long while when she got home. She could not, under any circumstances, develop anything reminisce of a crush on that boy.

Sam cleared his throat, audibly, beside her and she was washed with a renewed sense of guilt and hate for one Maurice Rodriguez. Here she was, sitting next to a sweet, kind, caring, and gentle boy and she was off gallivanting about in her memory of a brash, rude, malicious young man.

"I think I should call Oliver," Sam mumbled, his cell phone open once more. Reggie nodded her head, but he wasn't looking at her, so she wasn't sure he'd seen. He slapped the phone shut and shoved it decidedly back into his pocket. "I…just can't…"

"Is everything lost?" Reggie questioned quietly, "Isn't there a back-up disc, or something?"

"Of course we have back-ups, but the project is in pieces…it took us five hours to compile the thing and then three more just to save the finished copy to that disc….and it was so huge, we couldn't leave the saved copy on the school computer, our lab teacher would have been so tweaked. God, we're going to have to get together tonight and put it back together…we'll have to do it at Oliver's house since we don't have access to the school computer lab and he's the only one that has a computer that can handle it," Sam sighed, tossing the half-empty bag of cotton candy into the nearby trashcan and Reggie looked at him with concern. He wasn't one to waste perfectly edible food, "We won't even have a chance to debug the damn thing, compiling takes long enough. Something tells me I'm going to be in Run Time Error hell tonight…" He frowned, shifting uncomfortably, most likely because of the heat, and taking a good long drink from his soda. A strange look crossed his face, a mixture of sadness, shame, and anger, and Reggie didn't even have to guess at what it was about.

"You couldn't have done anything," she told him softly, patting his hand gently. He smiled half-heartedly at her.

"I know…" he mumbled, "I just…felt like a little kid or something…I couldn't even get a sentence out…I'm just such a little wuss…"

"You were scared, Sammy."

"You say that like it's okay," Sam cried, tossing his soda away now as well and bolting to his feet to pace. The park had cleared for the most part, the crowd had thinned. It was just too hot that day for rides and popcorn, "And that bastard…_what is his problemo_? He didn't say anything, didn't even help me out at all. And then the way he treated you…like he didn't even know you…"

"He was just trying to impress his friends," Reggie said solemnly, looking down so Sam didn't see the color that had spread over her cheeks at the mention of Maurice, "We can't forget…they are his friends now. And we're just…"

"And we're just what?" Sam demanded, turning to face her. His cheeks were splotched with red and there was an involuntary twitch in his cheek. It had him enraged, and Reggie didn't know what to do. She'd never seen Sam so worked up, "He threw us away…like we were trash…or something. He either treats us like lepers or strangers in the crowd…and I don't know which one's worse. God!" Sam fell back to the bench, running his hands over his face and quivering as his anger subsided and slumped back as though wiped from that brief outburst, "Twister could be a jerk, but at least we could handle it, and he was our friend…so he wasn't usually a jerk to us…and it wasn't like he tried to be, he just said stupid things. But now…now it's like he goes out of his way to make everyone I thought he once cared about miserable. He used to be a good guy, but I'm with Otto now…he's a complete and total lame-o." Sam shook his head, coughing, and turning his head to stare out at the emptying amusement park, the few people standing in line for rides with their little kids while they sweat profusely, "What's worse…I think he gets some sort of sick pleasure from it all. I mean…you know…I always thought Lars was the sadist.

"I just can't stand him anymore. Is it bad that I wish something horrible would happen to him? And what about last night? What the hell was that all about?" Reggie bit her lower lip. She had tried to block out the night before, but now it seemed to play in front of her eyes as vivid as when it had happened, "I mean, what was wrong with him? I've never seen anyone so…so _aggro_. Had he been drinking? _And what was with all the blood?_ Did he get in another fight? I just…you know, my mother always told me not to hang out with him so much."

"I didn't know that," Reggie said silently, her eyes glazed over with the memory and fresh tears.

"Yeah. She said 'that boy is a bad seed'. She was convinced that he was a juvenile delinquent in the making or something. She hated him, and I was always defending him to her. I don't know what the hell it was all about…until now. I hate to admit it, but my mother was right. The guy is bad news, probably always was. Maybe we never should have…"

"Hey," Reggie snapped suddenly from her reverie, focusing in on Sam and overwhelmingly furious, "Look, I've known him longer than you, alright? Maybe he's not that great right now, but your mother was wrong. He was a good kid! And you know…" her voice broke slightly, and her bottom lip quavered, "Twister's still in there…somewhere…I know he is." She closed her eyes, leaning forward on her knees, whispering to the ground, "He has to be."

"I'm sorry, Reg," Sam mumbled, moving a hand towards her, to comfort her, but flinching back uncertainly, "Let's talk about something else, alright? He's not our problem now. He doesn't even like us anymore…" Sam shook his head, "That was more than evident yesterday at the skate park." Reggie nodded slightly and they fell silent, lost in their own thoughts.

Reggie tried to force her mind from that night, but she couldn't. She couldn't just not care about Maurice. As much as she'd tried to get used to the fact they weren't friends anymore, that he had a new crowd and wanted nothing to do with her or Otto or Sam, she just couldn't. She would wake up every morning thinking, "today I should go to the beach or something with the guys" and that always included Maurice or Twister or whatever he was to her at that moment. But then she would remember and it just…disheartened her. It didn't seem right that she should have to wake up everyday and suddenly be washed with sadness. He hadn't been drunk, she tried convincing herself. But then what would that have made him? Lars and that other boy had talked, but she couldn't hear what they had been saying. Lars had been angry at the other boy, it was obvious they weren't familiar with one another and they weren't friends in the least.

She recalled how tenderly Lars had led his brother into the house. She'd never thought that Lars could have that in him. She wondered for a moment if Lars had taken care of Maurice, but it was quickly erased by an undoubted 'of course he did'. Suddenly, she wanted to believe Maurice had been drunk. Because that wasn't so bad, then. There were worse things, she knew. But the way he had looked out at the street, the houses, the way he walked and talked and acted. It wasn't like a person intoxicated. She'd been to parties that included a little drinking. She knew what drunk looked like, at least, she was fairly certain she did. She closed her eyes and shook her head and squeezed her hands. Forget him. Forget him. Oh god, forget him.

Sam was lost in his own memories. Squid. He smirked. He'd hated it so much when Twister had called him that, and now…now he would give anything just to have Maurice call him by it…just once. Maybe then he could believe that Twister was still in there somewhere. How could all the good times mean nothing. He picked the lint from his shirt and blinked away tears. The past few trips to Mount Baldy, New Zealand, Hawaii, Malibu and anywhere else the Rockets' father so graciously took the kids all on were punctuated by the absence of Twister. They always seemed to lack, be less fun, or even unmemorable aside from the fact that they were without him. Nothing seemed…well…right anymore. They're group was incomplete, as cliché as it sounded. They didn't hang out as much anymore, Reggie, Sam, and Otto. Reggie and Sam would go on their dates, but Reggie had Sherri, Trish, and the cheerleaders and other girls. Sam had Oliver and his Nerd Squad, as they jokingly called themselves. And then Otto had the attention and friendship of most every extreme sports wannabe in Ocean Shores, though he usually just hung out with Jamal, Eddie, and Josh.

Sam sighed, folding his hands in his lap and watching the seagulls gather on the ground to eat the popcorn and candy dropped by uncaring Amusement Park patrons. If anything, they all had new friends now. His mother would tell him with her matronly nasal, "kids grow apart". But it didn't make that transition from friends to acquaintances, or in some cases like Maurice, complete strangers, any less painful. To say he didn't miss those days relaxing on their surfboards on the lull ocean, laughing over childish things and talking about nothing important whatsoever, would be a flat out lie. He would look back on those days longingly, and wish he could have froze those moments in time when they were truly happy.

There was something kind buried inside of Twister that none of the other kids ever possessed. An innocence that Sam had never seen in anyone else. He had sat on a raft fishing with the rest of their gang, and befriended his tiny first catch within seconds. He had played on the beach and gained the infatuations of a surfing seal that he named affectionately Bruce. Twister was more child-like than any of them. He was sentimental, kind, and caring. The type of person people wished they could be. Sam frowned, wondering if that little boy had known how truly unique he was. He probably didn't. Sam ran a hand over the back of his neck and sighed. His mother was wrong, he knew. Twister had been a good kid.

"Um…Reg," Sam finally spoke up, forcing himself to remember a more important conversation he needed to be having. Reggie looked to him curiously, smiling slightly, but it was too sad, too half-hearted.

"What's up?"

"I was thinking…" he mumbled, persisting with a stammer, "That maybe…um…I just thought…you know…uh…" he tugged at his shirt. Why was it suddenly so hot? "Maybe it was time…we…um…talked about…well…us."

"What about us?" Reggie questioned carefully, meekly.

"Well…I…uh…we've been dating for awhile," Sam continued, swallowing hard, "And…well…everyone just assumes that you and I are…already…well…it's just that…" he shifted slightly, trying to turn to face her and kicking her shin, "Sorry," he gasped quickly as she hissed in pain, grabbing the injured area. She shook her head, mumbling that it was alright and motioning for him to continue, "Uh…well…" he took a deep breath, and let it all spill out, "We like the same things, we've known each other a long time, and we know everything about one another. We've been dating awhile, we get along really well, and everybody says we're perfect together. The perfect team, really. And you're the only girl I've ever felt comfortable around, you're my best friend, and I really like you. It all just makes sense. Reggie, will you be my girlfriend?"

Reggie stared blankly at the blond boy before her, blinking a few times and trying to determine if she'd heard right. It wasn't how she'd imagined the moment, getting her first serious boyfriend. Sweltering in the summer heat, wearing an old tank top and frayed ratty cut-off shorts. He seemed to be arguing his case, as to why they should be a couple, and she half-expected him to pull out his laptop and show her a PowerPoint presentation on the pros and cons of them going steady. She shook that image from her head and let a smile slip over her stunned features.

"Yeah," she stammered, surprised to hear herself agreeing, though she didn't know why. Like he'd said, it made sense, "Yes, I'll be your girlfriend." A slow smile made its way over his face, and suddenly the atmosphere lightened, as she repeated the words again, as if to confirm to herself that she was indeed agreeing to a steady secluded relationship with the proverbial boy-next-door. They broke into sheepish chuckles, and Sam hesitated forward, pulling back, his hand resting mere inches from her arm.

"Should I kiss you now?" he asked meekly. She shrugged, then nodded. He leaned in uncertainly, trying to adjust himself, trying to figure out which angle to come in at, and then suddenly threw caution to the wind and quickly pecked her on the lips. They smiled at one another, as though satisfied, and both stood to head back home. They walked side by side, Reggie's arms crossed over her chest, Sam pulled his cell phone back up and punched in Oliver's number, this time hitting dial and letting it ring.

-0-0-

Lars was stunned when his parents entered the house, having nearly dozed off waiting for them. He scrambled quickly to his feet, and they stood in the doorway. Raul shutting the door and coming to place his hand in the small of his wife's back. They looked down at their eldest son pleasantly, and he stared up at them with wide eyes and obvious fear. He glanced at the clock and shot his gaze back up to them, folding his arms in front of him.

"It's four forty-seven, where the hell have you two been?" he demanded, and they flinched at the abrasive nature of his tone.

"Watch your language, young man," Raul started but Lars cut him off, shaking his head and trembling, pacing the room.

"I've been worried sick, waiting and wondering, and not knowing what to do…"

"Lars, mi hijo," Sandy cooed softly, coming into the den swiftly and placing an arm over her son, "I know we're a bit late getting home, but your father and I decided to go out last night. We hardly see one another between work and…" Lars yanked from his mother's touch, turning on them with tears spilling from his eyes.

"I don't know what to do, mom, pop," he stammered, "He's up in that room and he hasn't come down and I don't know if he's still asleep or if he's okay now or what…and I don't know what to do…" Suddenly, he was a child, begging for his mom, begging her to make things better, to kiss the boo-boos, chase away the nightmares, and comfort him in the way only a mother could.

"What are you talking about, mi hijo?" Sandy questioned, exchanging a confused and concerned glance with her husband. Lars blew up, then, suddenly enraged. How could they not know? How could they not have seen the way their son was wasting away right before everyone's eyes? How could they not have noticed that their youngest boy was fading away!

"What am I talking about?" Lars repeated, "_What am I talking about!_ If you ever came home you would know, goddamn it!"

"Lars, no toma ese tono de la voz con su madre," Raul growled, and Lars turned on him.

"_Don't take that tone of voice with my mother?" _he mocked, seething, "Oh, well what tone of voice am I supposed to take when my little brother comes home late at night covered in blood and vomit, not knowing what the hell is going on, screaming at everyone, not making any sense, completely wasted and I can't even get a hold of my goddamned parents! Huh? What tone of voice do I take then? Huh? When my little brother nearly got himself killed last night? When my little brother's been killing himself every fucking day for the past two years?" Lars broke, clutching his forehead with his hand and trying to hide the tears that were now flowing freely, too embarrassed to even look at his parents and see their reactions, "God, you don't know. You don't know, do you? What's it's been like…what he's been like…you don't even realize."

"Lars…" Sandy began, reaching forward to her son, but he pulled away, turning his back to them and heading for the far recliner. He paused, shoulders shaking.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, "I didn't mean to…I tried to watch him…I did…but I didn't do a very good job," he turned to look at his parents, staring wide-eyed, each with stone plastered faces ready to crumble at the next words that passed from Lars's lips, "He took LSD last night."

"Que?" Raul exploded, and Sandy stepped forward tentatively.

"Are you sure, mi hijo?"

"Yes, I'm sure. That's what that boy said…that dropped him off…"

"Where was he?" Raul demanded, "That he was getting this LSD?"

"I don't know," Lars mumbled, eyes downcast, "I don't ever know where he is. He doesn't tell me. And it's not like I can keep track of him. He takes off, he doesn't come home some nights, he just…" Sandy touched a hand to her son's elbow, and he came to her, letting her wrap him in her arms.

"Shh…mi hijo. Tell us everything," she whispered, leading him to the couch, "We're here now. Tell us everything that has happened and we will take care of it."

Lars took a deep breath, leaning back into the comfort of the sofa, and looking to the ceiling as though he'd written everything on the white plaster.

"I don't know everything," he began with a hushed unsteady voice, "I know that he goes to parties, and he comes home smelling like alcohol and marijuana, and sometimes he doesn't come home at all. He goes out at night, he goes out during the day. I don't know half the people he hangs out with all the time, I couldn't pick them from a crowd. He has this girlfriend and…god, I don't know what they've done…and…" Lars shook his head, trying to keep composed, "He ditches school all the time, he gets in fights, he has an attitude like you have no idea. He's banned from Madtown, I don't know where him and his delinquent friends will go now. I didn't think that…I didn't think he did…well, anything worse than that…he's just…I don't know…so much has happened, that I don't even know if I remember it all," Lars closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He licked his lips, and looked out at his parents, "I guess this has all been going on for a couple years now…"

And slowly, Lars confessed to his parents the past three years that he had spent hiding, covering and watching his brother's downward spiral.

* * *

END A/N: For some reason a lot of you seemed to have it in your heads that Lars was going to go on a rampage, beating people up and whatnot. I don't know where you guys came up with that. I mean, honestly, what would the point be of him going out randomly pounding his little brother's friends? Maurice would _still_be a drug junkie, right? That wouldn't change. And Lars would not only get in trouble with the law, it would probably affect his position on the Shark's field hockey team. Truth is, sometimes the hardest thing to do is talk to your parents and ask for their help. Moving on from that after-school movie moment... 

On Sam and the RPG project, I tried to keep the computer programming jargon to a minimal. Computer programming is a hobby of mine, actually...hehe...but _gasp!_ Reggie is Sam's girlfriend now! Them crazy kids...

Anyways, it's three-thirty in the morning and I'm dead tired, I should get to bed. I don't think there's anything else I need to say so...

Great way to start off the New Year, right? With a fanfic update? You know what else is a good way to start off the New Year? With _**REVIEW**_s! And lot's of them!

Please excuse any grammatical and typing errors, I did my last proofread late at night, so...yeah.

Thanks for reading!


	8. Problemless

A/N: I'm beginning to have this dreadful thought that this story may end up being unfinished and added to my list of totally awesome fanfics that have been unforgivably discontinued. I'm trying not to let that happen, but I've just had so much shit on my shoulders lately.

Anyways...I'm a little dissapointed no one even attempted to guess what the next song would be. But if you want explanation, I had to put "Come As You Are" by Nirvana followed by "Adam's Song" by Blink-182 because of the eerily similar lyrics "Take your time, hurry up, the choice is yours..." and "I took my time, I hurried up, the choice was mine...". I believe that is a shout-out to Kurt Cobain, who commited suicide. Adam's Song, for anyone who doesn't know, is about suicide.

Thanks to the reviewers; my loyal salsipuedes, Alex, Warina-Kinomoto, and UnlikelyToBearIt. You guys always have and always will rock and remain the constant that keeps this story updating. When I finish this (becauseI really want to) it'll be because of all of you.

ENJOY!

* * *

Chapter 8: Problem-less

_I never thought, I'd die alone_

_I laughed the loudest, who'd have known_

_I traced the chord back to the wall_

_No wonder it was never plugged in at all_

_I took my time, I hurried up_

_The choice was mine, I didn't think enough_

_I'm too depressed, to go on_

_You'll be sorry, when I'm gone_

-Blink 182, "Adam's Song"

I peeled my eyes open and shut them immediately. It hurt to see. There was silence throughout the world. A reverence, like someone had died. Maybe it was me. Maybe I was dead. I pulled myself up, the cool blanket that had been covering me slid from my body. I was naked, I realized. There was something wrapped around my arms and hands, and I was shivering. My hair was damp. I tried to cough, but it hurt too much, so I curled back up into a ball and concentrated on shutting the world out.

I drifted back to sleep. Back to the taunting of my dreams, beckoning me to follow them and pulling back when I got too close. I opened my eyes, shut them again. Turned into myself, flipped out, lay on my back, my wide eyes studying the dark void of my ceiling. There was screaming echoing in my ears. For a fraction of a moment, I wondered if maybe it was me screaming, or perhaps it was my imagination and no one was screaming at all. God, it sounded like someone was fucking dying. Maybe it was me. Maybe I was dying. I clamped my hands over my ears. Shut up, shut up, shut up. They sounded almost animalistic. Stop fucking screaming, I wanted to say, but my tongue was so dry. I needed water. I felt like a snail and someone dumped a pound of salt all over my body. I was drying up, soon I'd be dust blowing away in the wind. Something about that made me want to cry.

I tried to remember where I was. It smelled like my house. It probably was. I tried to remember how I got there. No such luck. I tried to remember what had happened. Nothing. I was drawing a blank. I rolled onto my belly, grabbed my pillow and breathed it in. I fell back into sleep.

My eyes flickered open and I could smell food. The phone was ringing. At least I think it was the phone. I turned over, my stomach growled, and I went back to sleep.

I heard whispering in the darkness. Opened my eyes and found myself facing the emptiness. I pinched my eyes shut, whispered to myself, and fell back asleep.

The phone was ringing again. I distinctly recognized it as the phone. I thought to get up and answer it, but as abruptly as it had started, it stopped. I rolled over, hung my head over the side of my bed, and coughed, and coughed, and coughed, until I threw up slightly. I fell back against my pillow, but not before I caught sight of my desk drawer pulled open, as though someone had been rummaging through it, and a picture peeking out from the bottom. Faces from a past I had tried to shut out, to forget all about. They looked so healthy. So goddamned American, so goddamned clean cut. I closed my eyes and sank into my bedspread.

God hates me. God's punishing me. I did something wrong. I did something horribly wrong. There is no God. There is no fucking God. And I'm dying. I'm dying, and they'll be no place for me to go. No heaven. No hell.

I wanted to jam something sharp through my skin. Puncture the flesh that was pulled taut over my body, rip a hole big enough to drive a truck through. I wanted to crawl inside myself, find my heart, dried out and weakly hiccupping, and use it as a muse. I wanted to paint a picture of that dried fig masquerading as my heart and post it all over every wall in the house. I wanted to cry and cry and cry until all my tears gathered into a lake and then take a boat to the middle of that lake and live there all alone in the darkness and fog. I wanted to go insane, and have the dignity to at least know when I got there. I wanted to package myself up into a box and ship myself to China or Ethiopia or wherever the hell those kids are starving and let them cook me up and eat me. I wanted to see the end of the world, so I could laugh and point and say, "well, damn, I knew that one was coming."

And most of all, I wanted a hit of something, _anything_. God.

I rolled out of bed and pulled some pants on. There were bandages on my arms. They were coming undone slightly, but I didn't care. I stumbled through my room, rummaging through my pockets, through my books, through my closet, my bags, everything. I turned the room inside out. Nothing. Not even a blue or an amp. I became desperate, throwing things, ripping things off shelves, tearing my clothes from the closet. My heart was pounding, my head was spinning, tears were streaming down my cheeks. God. God. Come on, god. Oh please, oh fucking shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.

I slumped to the floor, a Sharpie marker death gripped in my hands. I popped the cap off. I hadn't sniffed a Sharpie marker since sixth grade. I breathed in deep, nearly jamming the damn thing up my nose. Another deep breath. Another. Again and again I inhaled the fume of the black permanent ink, until the itch beneath my skin subsided and my head was swimming with the stars. I dropped the marker and stumbled towards my bathroom. I slumped over the sink, peering at myself in the mirror. My eyes were sunken in, my skin was pale and placid. I was drenched in sweat, and my lips were dried and chapped like the Sahara desert. I threw up, involuntarily. There was nothing in my stomach, all that came out was some colorful acid. I didn't even have any liquid in me, I knew, because I was certain I'd slept awhile and I didn't have to pee. I let the toilet lid clack down and plopped on top of it, burying my head in my hands.

The buzz from the marker didn't last long. I had to get out of the house. I had to call Lou. Oh shit. I was pretty sure I lost his amps. He wasn't going to be happy about that, if he remembered I was holding them for him.

I started chewing on my nails, itchy and fidgety again. Who would have drugs? Fuck that. Who would be willing to share their drugs? I couldn't ask Lou. I lost his amps. He'd still share with me, but it wouldn't be right. I couldn't ask Doug-E. I don't know why, but I couldn't bring myself to go to him. I hated Steve. I didn't want to deal with my girlfriend. Mike's girlfriend hated me and they were probably somewhere lighting up together on a date or some shit like that. Real fucking romantic, huh? And no one else had regular stashes.

I pulled my hand away when I tasted bitter metal. I'd chewed my thumbnail nearly half-way down and it was bleeding now. I wiped it on my pant leg and it stung like a son of a bitch. I squeezed my eyes shut, ran my hands over my face and then went back to the sink, turning the faucet on and ducked my head under the steady stream of water, gulping. It slid coolly down my throat and I drank until I was full, then let the water splash over my face and down my neck. To say it was refreshing would be to give it far too much credit. As soon as I turned the water off, I was back where I'd started, only wet. I left the bathroom and went to lay on my bed, but was back in the bathroom moments later because I needed to pee.

I grabbed a shirt off the top of the pile on the ground and snatched my sneakers from beside my door. I part jogged part fell down the stairs and started for the door. I paused. Something was different. The house. It smelled different. It felt different. I could see that it was nighttime outside. My brother was probably in his room. Depending on how late it was he was either doing his homework - fucking goody-two shoes - or sleeping. But the house felt warmer than usual. I toyed with the doorknob for a bit then headed into the kitchen. I froze at the entrance. My mother was cleaning the dishes at the sink. My father was sitting at the table. They hadn't noticed I was there yet.

It seemed like I was watching the television on mute or something. They were silent, the sound of the water cascading onto the dirty dishes the only sound in the room. My father seemed to be staring at my mother's back, she was focused on the dishes. I didn't know what they were doing, what was going on. My parents were home and I couldn't seem to grasp that fact. I couldn't comprehend the scene that was before me. My parents were home, doing dishes and just hanging in the kitchen. The atmosphere was thick and I was beginning to regret going in there. Something was wrong. I started to back up and head for the front door. And then my mother glanced my reflection in the window above the sink, and she seemed to stop entirely. We stood there, silent, frozen in place, no one looking the other in the eye. And then my mother began to tremble, turning the faucet off and gripping the countertop as if she were afraid she were going to fall through the floor. Something was really fucking wrong.

"Maurice," she spoke softly, and my father turned to see me in the doorway. He drew in his breath sharply, "Tu estas despierto." She said it as though it were a miracle and I wondered for the first time since I'd woken up how long I'd been asleep.

"What are you guys doing home?" I questioned as casually as I could, considering I was dry, and had been for who knows how long. I didn't do very good. My voice came out a high-pitched squeak and I began shaking uncontrollably.

"Siéntese, mi hijo," my father spoke up, and I felt my entire body stiffen. Something was wrong. Something was seriously wrong. I thought to run for it. "Maurice," my father said in a low rumble. It was a warning, and I knew better than to ignore such a warning. I started slowly towards the farthest chair from my father. He pulled the one out right next to him and motioned for me to take it. I swallowed hard, though my mouth and throat were saliva-less and I took the seat.

"Mi hijo," my mother began unsteadily. She paused, as though she had forgotten how to speak and I could see her face, reflected in the window above the sink, scrunch in concentration, "Maurice," she began again, her voice tensed and drawn out. She was distancing herself from me, and there was no motherly tenderness in that hardened tone, "We spoke to Lars last night."

"_So_?" I spat, looking between them. My father went rigid. My mother paled. My father made to bolt upright, and my mother let out a small noise.

"Raul," she said sharply, reprimanding, and he halted, falling back to the chair. I didn't want to think about what his impulse to do had been.

My mother, in seeming slow motion, walked to the far cupboard and carefully opened it, as though it were a frail priceless antique. I could see her hand shaking as she reached up into the dark shelves and my heart dropped an inch with each small bag or bottle she brought down. When the last one lay in that pile, she turned away so that her back was to them…and me. There, lined up on the counter were funny colored and shaped pills, green fodder like leaves, and colorful liquids. Everything from amp to angel dust, weed to downers, dollies to cube, they'd even found that pack of cigarettes that wasn't mine. I stared in stun at my stash laid out before my family's eyes. I felt sick. And I exploded with anger. What the fuck? They went through my room! When I was out like a fucking rock, they went through my room! My goddamned room! Rifling through my personal things while I slept right there! What happened to human decency in this fucking house?

But I knew that wasn't right. I looked between my mom, who seemed too ashamed to even look at me, and my father, who was barely fighting the urge to do something I think…though I'm not sure…violent. I let the first thing that came to mind tumble from my mouth.

"That's not mine."

My mother scoffed and it turned into a sob. My father said nothing. I choked on my next protest to my innocence. I looked bitterly at the table and smirked slightly. What was the use? I was busted. All my dirty little secrets were uncovered. What was I going to do? Be ashamed? Try and atone for my evil ways? No fucking way.

"So I got a habit," I said bluntly, spreading my hands out in front of me and staring down the sink faucet, "You gonna throw 'em out? Turn me in to the bull? Or what?"

"How could you bring this into our house?" my father questioned, looking at me with pleading eyes. I glanced at the drugs on the counter and felt the urge to run over and snatch them up, take whatever I could get my hands on. I bounced my leg, began chewing on my other thumbnail. "Maurice," my father cried and my eyes darted from him to the drugs to my mother to the window to the door back to him, "How could you bring this into our house? What were you thinking? Why would you do this? Maurice¡Contésteme¡Ahora!" I shot him a look of pure hatred, and there was a crack behind my brain.

"Like you give a fucking damn," I hissed and my mother flinched. Something passed over my father's eyes, he stoically controlled whatever emotion was erupting inside him.

"Maurice," my mother attempted, looking at me with tear filled eyes, "Why would you…these…_why_?"

"Because…" I stammered, "Because…because I wanted to." My leg went up and down like a jackhammer, my eyes flickered to my stash, back to my mother, "Because…_because_."

"That's not a reason!" my father snapped. Fuck, pops, that's all the reason.

"What are you gonna do? What are you gonna fucking do?" I demanded, bolting to my feet and the chair slid across the floor, falling backwards with a loud thwack, "Your son's a goddamn junkie. Aren't you proud of me, mi padres? I'm a goddamn fucking champ? A regular fucking all-star! Now, either turn me into the fucking five-oh or give me my goddamn cotics! Fuck!"

I was itching all over, my blood was boiling. God. I need it. I need it. I fucking need it! I was panicking. I needed air. No. Fuck air. I needed a hit. Just one fucking hit. Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god…

I'd crossed the room before my parents could even think to stop me and popped the first pills I got my hands on. I'd swallowed them all just as my father grabbed me, dragging me to the tile floor. But I was subdued, closing my eyes and letting the drug take it's affect on my system. My mother was screaming at my father, at me, at herself. She was crying. My father was cursing, holding me like his arms were steel bars, my cage. Why didn't they understand? I was dying. I just needed the fucking hit or I'd die. Did they want me to die? Is that it? God. My fucking parents wanted me to die.

"I'm fine," I told no one in particular. And I was. My body was calm, my head was calm, I was completely fine.

I came clear of the high and found that my father had moved me to the couch. He was sitting on the edge of the recliner and my mother stood stiffly beside him. I said nothing, just stared blankly at the ceiling.

"I have a problem," I told them quietly.

"I'm glad you know that, mi hijo," my mother supplied somberly. She actually sounded like it. I felt like a tool. "But…why didn't you come to us?"

"Because…" I took a moment, then giggled slightly in my retort, "I don't have a problem with my problem." They were quiet. I was quiet. The clock on the wall loudly ticked away the time.

"Mi hijo," my father started. He paused, cleared his throat. Tried again, "Maurice, your mother and I have talked about this. We want you to get better. We want you to…we…we need help. We don't know what to do." I was waiting for them to tell me I'd become a burden. Far more trouble than I was worth and they'd sold me to gypsies or were going to take me down to the vet and have me put to sleep or something stupid like that. They said nothing more. So I took over for them.

"Where are you sending me?" I questioned, then in a haughty scoff, "Rehab?"

"No," my mother answered carefully. I closed my eyes, took a deep, seething breath.

"I'm not going to fucking boot camp," I said solidly.

"No, you're not," my mother whispered.

"Juvie?" I choked on that one. I'd heard horror stories.

"No."

"Opportunity school?" It was just as easy to get drugs there as anywhere else.

"No."

"Then where?" I demanded, pulling myself upright and burning my stare into them, "You're sending me away. I'm not that fucking stupid that I can't figure that one out. So where are you sending me?"

"To someone who will take care of you," my mother explained. I smirked, shaking my head.

"Aunt Cleotilda." They didn't honestly think that the old cat lady with the fucking mole on her lip could scare me now. I wasn't a ten year old idiot anymore. I frowned as my mother shook her head solemnly.

"No. We won't be sending you to your aunt."

"What?" I narrowed my eyes at them. I was out of guesses. There was no one else that they could possibly send me to. Unless…they were shipping me back to relatives in Mexico. Drugs were easier to get down there, so they wouldn't. Would they?

"Your father and I have spoken with an old friend," my mother went on, "And…he has offered to take you in." I stared at them, unblinkingly. I looked back and forth between them. I think I was looking for some sort of sign, some hidden clue, that what I'd heard wasn't what I'd heard.

"Huh?" I sputtered dumbly, "You're sending me to live with somebody I don't even know?"

"He's a good friend," my father spoke up, "We know he will give you the help you need."

My parents were fucking nuts. They looked at me unwaveringly and I gaped at them. Did they have holes in the back of their fucking heads? How could they sit there so calmly and tell me they were shipping me out like a diseased refugee? I shook my head in amazement. It fucking figured. My parents couldn't even be bothered with my drug addiction, they had to push even that on to someone else.

"For how long?" I managed to ask, though my throat felt clogged with words. My parents exchanged looks, and if it were possible, my heart sank further. Were they sending me away for good?

"As long as it takes," my mother supplied. Oh that is so fucking helpful. What the hell kind of answer is that, anyways? Why didn't they just give me to the goddamn circus.

"When am I going?"

"As soon as possible," my mother quipped.

"Tomorrow morning," my father interjected. I looked back and forth to each of them, felt like I was watching a tennis match, and nearly fell back down on the couch, growing dizzy from the head movement.

"What?" I gaped, "Tomorrow? What about school?"

"He will school you," my father explained.

"I'm just gonna leave? It's the end of the fucking school year! I can't just leave!"

"We talked to your teachers," my mother mumbled.

"It doesn't look like you would have passed this year anyways," my father growled and I flinched back, feeling sick to my stomach, "You've missed a lot of days, and have done no school work. He will catch you up." Another back and forth swing of the head.

"What about my things? I have to pack, don't I?"

"I've packed what you will need," my mother said quietly. I narrowed my eyes at them, swooning slightly and wanting to throw up. They've really planned this one out.

"But…what about…" I stammered, but I was out. I had nothing else to give. No protests. No questions. Everything was clear in my head. I was being sent from my home to live with some unfamiliar guy for an undetermined amount of time and I was leaving in the morning. I took a deep breath to compose myself. _Who the hell did my parents think they were_? "Where am I going? Where does he live?"

"Colorado," my father answered. I ran my tongue absently over my dry lips. They were cracked and bleeding. I felt my brain go catatonic as I stared blankly at the rough carpet. There was a dark stain where I had spilled my beer a few months back and feebly attempted to clean it up. I didn't do a very good job, but I'd got the smell out so my parents and brother bought my story of how it was apple juice.

"I don't want to go. I won't go," I said flatly. They were quiet a good long while and I listened to the clock, counting the ticks. I lost track, though, somewhere in the teens.

"You should go up to bed," my mother whispered, "You have a long drive ahead of you tomorrow."

I opened my mouth, to say something more, but no sound came out and nothing to say was in my mind. So I stood up as best I could, as my head was still swimming from the drugs or lack thereof. I swayed, then made my way to the stairs, half-crawling up them towards my room. I grabbed the cordless off the base on my way up, not caring if my parents saw me. Pretty sure they wouldn't care if they did.

I was careful not to slam my door shut behind me, and then I slunk to the floor and dialed the first number that came to mind. It was when a familiar, husky voice answered me that I realized I was crying. I lowered the phone, slumping forward on my knees and letting it rest on the floor, sobbing. I don't know how long I sat like that, but what didn't seem quite long enough later, I raised the phone back to my ear. I was surprised not to hear the dial tone.

"I'm not having a good week," I hiccupped into the phone, not entirely certain someone was on the other end listening to me.

"You're not having a good life," Doug-E replied quietly. At least someone in the world understands, "Well," he went on carefully. There was a hesitance to his voice that I had never heard before, "Do you want to talk about it…or…" he trailed off. He wasn't going to mention my crying. I was thankful for it. I took a deep, quivering breath.

"There's nothing to talk about," I managed to mutter, "My parents are sending me away."

"Huh?" Doug-E erupted, "To where? Why? When?" I frowned at the pile of clothes in front of my closet. I couldn't remember why it was there.

"Colorado. Because they hate me. Tomorrow."

He took a long time answering and I could hear his breathing, sharp and restless. It sounded like he'd been running a long distance. I wondered what he'd been doing before I called. Maybe I was interrupting something. Wouldn't surprise me. Just me, being a burden on someone else. God. Why was he putting up with me? Why didn't he just hang up the fucking phone on me?

"What's in Colorado?" he finally asked.

"I don't know. Some guy who's going to 'take care of me'. He's an 'old friend' of my parents," I explained, I choked on my next words, but I needed to say them, I needed him to understand the true extent of the situation, how dire things really were, "They raided my room, man. My fucking room…while I was sleeping right there, they were going through my shit and…oh god, what do I fucking do?"

"Calm down," Doug-E said evenly, but I was sobbing again. He was quiet for a long while. Before finally snapping, "Goddamn it, Maurice. Cut it the fuck out." I flinched, feeling my gut wrench. Doug-E had never spoken to me like that and it sounded a lot harsher than he'd actually said it, "What do you do? You go. You go to Colorado, that's what you fucking do. And you can quit with that 'my parents hate me', because it's fucking bullshit. They're doing it because they love you, man."

"No, they…"

"Shut up," Doug-E spat, "Just listen to me, alright." He fell silent, and I did as well. I was upset now, a little frustrated. Doug-E was supposed to understand me, supposed to tell me I was right to be angry, right to hate my parents, that I was right that they hated me and that they were indeed fucking nuts. He wasn't supposed to be supporting them. When he spoke again, I barely recognized his voice. It was soft, meek, a little shy and uncertain, not his usual cool and controlled, "You're special, Maurice." I tried to weigh what that meant in my mind. Special, as in special ed?

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" I demanded, though I didn't sound as tough as I wanted. My voice was just below a whisper and I sounded more like a petulant child.

"Just that…you're…" he was searching for the right words. Probably trying to make it sound less harsh, "You're different than these other douches." And then suddenly, he had it all figured out, and everything just fell from the phone, "You just…you don't belong in this life, Maurice. It's just…you're too good for all this shit. You're too smart, too talented. You just got so much…so much…I don't know…ability to be something great, for you to just throw it the fuck away and hang out with dumbasses like me and the other guys. I'm not going to say you don't got shit in your life, because…fuck, I know you got shit in your life. And maybe it's worse for you, because of how different you are. We're all just too stupid to think about it, like I know you do all the time. You know what I mean. About what could've happened, what should've happened, where you'd be, and why you're not there. You think too much, Maurice.

"And you've got something in you, Maurice. It's just…I mean, shit. Haven't you ever wondered why they all follow you around? Why they're all drawn to you like that? Why they do whatever you say, and listen to you and hang with you no matter how you treat them? Because you're like something else to them. You're different then them. You're the way they wish they were, or something. Fuck…you're powerful, that's what it is. Just the way you look at people, the way you talk and walk around and act. You're so full of…energy, I mean, just being near you…it's like insects. How insects fly to the brightest light, and…shit, Maurice, you're like the fucking sun to them. You're different and they feed off whatever it is about you that they don't have in themselves…

"I mean, you don't even treat your habit like they do. They act like they could quit anytime, but they don't want to. You know what it is. You know that it's like breathing, you just couldn't give it up. Maybe Lou and I see it too. But, I guess we're a little different too. Our lives are fucked. We've been fucked to this life since the day we were born. But you're different from even Lou and me, because you haven't been fucked to this life. They just want to believe it's something they can control in their lives, something they can want and have, and if they didn't want it anymore, they could just give it up, like the people in their lives act about them. And I know…I know every time you take the shit, I know what that look is. It's death. They think they're fucking immortal when they're taking their drugs, like it's just one fucking big party. But you look like you're looking death in the eye. You never once thought you were immortal, immune to the bad side effects of the shit. Something tells me…and I'm scared to say it…but I think the possibility of death is something that attracts you most to it, to the whole lifestyle. That's why you try heavier shit more. I know Trix wouldn't even fucking touch E, and don't think I haven't noticed all the fucking uppers you take.

"After last night…I'm not surprised your parents are fucking sending you away. If you were my kid, you'd be on the first goddamned bus to rehab," he seemed to falter at that, taking a deep breath, and I took a moment to try and take in everything he was saying. My chest ached, and I was anxious again, fidgeting. I was going to cry again. God, why was all this shit happening to me? Couldn't they all just leave me the fuck alone? Let me live my life the way I wanted to, and then die the way I wanted to? God, it wasn't going to get better, was it? I was alone. I really was alone. Even Doug-E had turned on me. I was alone. I was so fucking alone. "It's gonna be okay, Maurice," Doug-E said quietly, and I guess I was crying again. His voice sounded so goddamned hollow. So distant and far away. So dispassionate, indifferent and uncaring. Did he hate me too? The whole world was against me. The whole world was fucking nuts and hated me.

I silently hung up the phone and put it on the ground beside me. I curled up around my knees, tucked my chin to my collar bone, and cried. My body was trembling, and I couldn't get the tears to stop. I didn't even know what I was crying about anymore. I just cried, feeling it in the pit of my stomach, down my spine, in my legs and hands. I clawed at my bandaged arms, at my shirt because I felt suddenly hot and entangled and strangulated by that garment, at my neck and face. I ran my hands over my head, and fell on my back on the ground staring up at the ceiling and hiccupping every now and then with a partial sob.

Decidedly, I wiped the tears from my eyes and pulled myself up. I stumbled towards the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. I knocked open the bottle of aspirin and dumped the remaining pills in my hand, swallowing them in one gulp. Just make this pain stop, I silently pleaded them as I made my way towards my bedroom and my window. I swung it open and took in the cold air. It touched my skin tentatively. Aching against my face and caressing my bare arms. I was wearing a t-shit, I realized. I hadn't gone outside in a t-shirt in a long time. I thought to grab a sweatshirt, as it was kind of cold out. But at that moment, the cold was appealing to me. It seemed to be the only thing in the world that liked me at the moment, as it wrapped itself around me in an icy embrace. I started to duck out, when I heard the door and froze. I turned back into my room and felt a sick twist in my gut.

"Where the hell are you going?" Lars asked, standing in the doorway of the bathroom, that conjoined our rooms, in his boxers and a t-shirt. I stared blankly at him a long time, before my jaw stiffened and my lip curled into a sneer.

"What's it matter to you?"

He crossed the room in a flash, before I had time to even blink, and grabbed my shirt collar, tugging me back in the room.

"It matters," he hissed in my face.

I pulled away from his warmth. He smelled familiar, like family and my mom's cooking and I couldn't stand that shit right now. It made me want to cry all over again, because I was sure I didn't smell that way. I probably smelled like weed or alcohol or some shit like that. _We spoke to Lars last night_. It hit me like a ton of bricks. I hadn't figured what that meant, when my mom had said it, but now, as he gripped me like a prison guard, I knew. He fucking told them. He fucking ratted me out. He betrayed me. There was too much emotion boiling in me now and without thinking, I shoved my brother with all my strength. He fell back slightly, dragging me with him in his iron grip on my shirt.

"You really want to know where I'm fucking going? Like you fucking care all of a sudden? Like you're suddenly going to keep goddamn tabs on me?" I demanded, stepping up to him, and he loosened his grip. He looked embarrassed, or ashamed, or something. I didn't know why, but I pressed on, "I'm going _out_, alright. To hang with my friends, maybe say _good-bye._" He looked up at me, peering curiously and a little shocked. I smirked in amused rage, "What? Aren't you proud? The fucking happiest guy on earth, right? You finally did it, man. You finally got rid of me! I'm going away! Next bus out of fucking town, courtesy of our cracked parents. You never have to see me ever fucking again! They're sending me away. But you already knew that. Because it's what you wanted. To get rid of the little brother you never fucking wanted…the little brother you hate…that you spent your whole goddamned life hating…isn't that right? And now you can stay home, do your homework, get straight A's, hang with your goody-two shoes friends, talk to dad about your scholarships and the _fucking_ _wonderful _Sharks, because they're all the _perfect_ brothers you fucking wanted, and be the goddamned good son! And you don't have to take care of me anymore. Don't have to baby-sit the pain in your ass anymore."

I pulled away from him and tossed my first leg out the window. He seemed to snap from his ashamed trance at that motion, and grabbed my arm, jerking me back towards the house.

"I can't let you…" he started, but I swung on impulse before he could even finish. I connected squarely with his jaw and he fell back half from the impact, half from stun, and brought up a hand to touch the injured area tenderly. His lip was split and the cheek was already flushing with blood rushing to the wounded spot. I half expected him to hit me back, to pin me to the ground, sit on my back and make me apologize, like he'd always done before when I'd crossed some big brother line. But he just stared at me in shock, eyes wide, mouth parted slightly. I realized why as I caught a look at my face in the vanity mirror across the room. I had fixed him with a glare of pure hatred, and my face didn't even look like my face anymore. I focused on him and shook my head.

"Don't you dare start pretending you give a fuck about me," I told him evenly, and he crumbled, looking to the ground.

"You go out that window," he started softly, "And I…"

"You'll what?" I demanded, "Tell mom and dad? Go ahead. You're getting pretty fucking good at that."

"No," he snapped, fixing me with a glare of his own. I was startled by it. It wasn't angry, it wasn't filled with loathe, it was just…weird…I actually felt physically wounded by that look, "You go out that window, and I'm done. You're on your own. Because you have no idea…no fucking idea…how wrong you are."

We stood there, at a dead standstill. His eyes bore into mine, and I couldn't get myself to look away. I was shaking, and it seemed like he was judging me and pleading with me and wanting something from me all at the same time. I couldn't take that kind of responsibility. So I shook my head, and trembling, turned my back to him, as he had done to me so many fucking times in my life, and clambered out the window. I hadn't snuck out that way in years. I hadn't needed to. So I was a little unskilled, and because of it, I fell with a sickening crack to the cement below. Pain shot up my legs, and my wrists when I'd put my hands out to keep my face from planting itself in the driveway. Ungracefully, I lifted myself up and started down the street with as dignified a strut as I could manage, despite the pain jolting up my spine with each step I took, the tears threatening to spill down my cheeks, and the fact I was totally strung out.

It was too late to find drugs. But I had a twenty in my pocket, and I knew the guy that worked at the Seven-Eleven down the street on the corner would sell me a six pack of beer and maybe a pack of cigarettes if I slipped him five bucks. I didn't smoke cigs, usually. But I needed to smoke something, and my parents did confiscate my entire goddamn stash, which included my weed. The fucking bastards.

I waltzed casually into the convenience store and nodded to the man behind the counter. While his nametag read Walter, everyone knew him as Twig. He was in his early twenties, a high school dropout, with thinning hair and a beer gut that almost made me want to quit drinking every time I saw it. _Almost_. He wore thick glasses, that bugged out his eyes, and he had shoulder length, stringy blond strands that hung unkempt around his face. I'm not quite sure why he was called Twig. Maybe because he was so tall, his arms and legs protruded from his body like branches.

I browsed the aisle of chips and crackers and other baked or fried snack products, as an obese elderly woman shopped for milk, probably for her numerous cats, and what was most likely going to be her dinner, three different bags of chips, two gas station frozen burritos, and a Big Gulp of diet Pepsi. She bumped into me and broke into a hearty laugh, apologizing cheerfully and snatching up a bag of Funyuns I had been staring at. She put a hand on my shoulder as she passed by me and I shuddered at the touch and made a face.

There was an older man at the counter, middle-aged. He was buying a pack of New Ports, some latex condoms, the ridged kind for added sexual pleasure, a small bottle of baby oil, the cheapest wine coolers in the store, and tucked underneath it all in an embarrassed fashion, a Play Girl with over muscled practically naked young men deeply tanned and rubbed with shiny stuff pictured across the front, the words 'Naughty Boys, Go To My Room' lettered in bright pink blazed across the top. He had his hands shoved in his pocket and kept glancing nervously at it. I think he was getting hard just at the thought of flipping through it. I fought the urge not to stare or laugh at him. Fucking fag.

I turned back to the chips and waited for the fag to leave the store and the elderly lady to step up to the counter before heading back at a leisurely pace to the alcohol cooler. I looked over my options, before tugging out a pack of Millers, cheap without being too cheap, and heading for the counter. The fat chick was on her way out. I stepped up and put my purchase on the red countertop. Twig looked at it, then looked at me. I placed the twenty on the counter and stared unwaveringly up at him, pointing over his shoulder at a pack of Marlboros.

"Those, too," I said.

"ID?" he asked in a bored nasally tone, looking me up and down doubtfully. I pulled out the only card-like thing in my pocket, a Happy Bunny sticker I got from one of those stupid quarter machines the other day, and with it pushed the twenty closer to him.

"You can keep the change," I muttered. He gave me a good, long, hard stare. Then, as though approving, he nodded. I pocketed a Snickers and a pack of gum while he had his back to me as he fetched my cigs. He took his time ringing the beer and Marlboro's up, glancing at me as he punched in each item.

"You look seriously hung-up, kid," he said conversationally, and I fixed my gaze on him. I'd been looking around the store when he'd spoke. "Where are your punk friends? You knocking on the door?" I stared at him for awhile. And he paused to stare back. Was he seriously speaking the ad language? Despite his appearance, I'd always had him pegged as a do-righter. I decided to play along.

"No," I answered, sounding as casually as he did, "I'm just way past due." I took a deep breath. I didn't know if I should ask, but I was desperate, "Are you anywhere?" He gave me a quizzical look, and I sighed, looking away. It was worth the shot, but I didn't want to press. I barely had the dough for the drugs, and I knew, if he was holding, there would be serious taxing the way he was glaring at me. I just didn't have the money, "Nothing," I muttered.

He handed me my change and I tried not to make it look like I was rushing out the door. I made my way to Madtown, empty for the night, and took a seat on the ramp. I pulled out the Snickers and munched on it while I popped open a Miller and shuffled in my pocket for my Zippo. I didn't realize how hungry I'd been as I devoured the candy bar and quickly finished my Miller in one quick chug. I tossed the bottle down the ramp and watched it shatter, smirking.

Fucking Conroy, banning me from the skate park. Who the hell did he think he was? This was _my _fucking park. I skated here every fucking day, got high here every fucking night. Like he could fucking ban me.

I pulled out another beer and unwrapped my pack of cigarettes, banging it on my palm and slipping one out, placing it between my teeth and deftly lighting it up. I tossed the trash down the ramp as well and let the tobacco and warm smoke calm my nerves. I finished off four beers and the one cigarette - it took me awhile, like I said, I'm not much for smoking cigs - before I was starting to feel any better.

I was hungry. That much I knew. My stomach was growling like mad. I pulled myself up, throwing my cigarette butt to the ground and leaving the park while lighting up another Marlboro. Having nothing in my stomach meant I was getting drunk a lot faster. I could barely walk straight, and I burned my hand lighting the cigarette. I shook it off, pocketing my lighter and heading up the boardwalk. There was somewhere I wanted to go for food, I was just seriously craving their food, and though I couldn't quite remember where, my feet seemed to know exactly how to get there.

If I wasn't drunk off my ass, I probably would have thought it was strange that the restaurant was still opened, though it was only one of those sliding metal door things that was still up. The lights were on, and in the background airy luau music was plucking melodiously. It sounded like elevator music and made me want to gag. I stepped up to the counter and looked around.

Where the fuck was everybody?

I searched for one of those 'ring for service' bells, but didn't find one. I looked about, made to call for someone, when I noticed the register. I didn't have any money for food, I realized with a slight twinge of sadness. I made my way around the counter, stubbing out my cigarette on its top, leaving behind a burn mark and ashes, while taking another swig of the beer in my hand. I punched a few buttons on the register, somewhat uncertainly, glanced over my shoulder. It was asking for a password, and I just punched in a few things. I hadn't really been trying, but I jumped back and got excited all the same when the drawer popped open. It wasn't that full, most of the money had probably already been put in the store safe for the night. I glanced around, looked up at the security camera pointing the wrong direction, and without thinking, grabbed the money; a couple twenties, a few tens, and a hefty stack of ones, and shoved it in my back pocket.

I closed the drawer, and stumbled around the counter. I wasn't hungry anymore. I felt kind of sick now. I finished my beer and left it on the nearest bar stool as I started outside and half-fell into the alleyway. I leaned over a trashcan and threw up for the umpteenth time that day. Good-bye Snickers bar, I thought solemnly, staring at the chunks of peanuts and gooey, half-digested chocolate and nougat. I took out a piece of gum, popped it in my mouth. I chewed for a moment before I started giggling, and then chuckling, and then broke into a full-on laugh. I just laughed, and laughed, and laughed. It hurt so goddamned much, but I kept laughing. Until I started crying. I gave out a loud shout and kicked the fucking trashcan over. Then froze, as I heard movement behind me.

"I'm taking it out already, jeez, dad," a slight voice called into the restaurant and a lithe form slid from the side door into the alleyway. She was clutching a large black trash bag, wearing a light colored tank top and loose shorts obviously stolen from her brother. I could see, as the shorts were slipping down off her slender form, that she had red plaid boxers on underneath. I found that incredibly sexy and flustered, because I wasn't supposed to be thinking about her that way. She dropped the bag in the nearby trashcan, and then noticed me and stopped. I tried to start away, but tripped over the can I knocked over and fell, sprawling onto my back and groaned from the pain.

"Oh," I heard her gasp, and then she was kneeling over me. Her thin, delicate fingers gingerly pushing the purple hair from around her face behind her ears, "Are you okay?" she asked, touching my arm.

Then, as though she realized who she was talking to, she pulled back, lowering her eyes and making to stand up. Before I knew what I was doing, I grabbed hold of her, my hand wrapped like a net behind her neck. I pulled her down against my chest, and her hands fluttered against my body in shock, trying to break her fall. And then I took hold of her lips with my own, squeezing my eyes shut and roughly kissing her. She tensed against me, pushing away slightly at first, and my lips worked against hers almost desperately.

I could feel it in my throat, this strong ache. It hurt. It hurt so much. I needed her to know that. Maybe feel it in me, this pain. I thought, maybe she could make it go away. God. I'm so fucking broken, I wanted to tell her. I'm in so many fucking pieces. Can't you just put me back together? Can't you fix me? Oh god, can't you just make it all go away? All the pain, all the misery, all the suffering?

I could feel her loosen, her hands no longer pressing against me, but softly curling into my shirt. I pulled her deeper, my heart thudding in my chest with hope, and my kiss softened against her lips and I carefully parted our mouths. My hand slid to caress her cheek, my thumb trailing beneath her bottom lip. It was trembling. I pulled away gently, resting my forehead against hers, and I could feel her breath against my mouth, keeping her kiss warm on my senses.

I wanted to tell her everything. Those three years of unhappiness. How lonely I felt. I wanted to tell her about the drugs, the drinking, and how they were the closest I could get to feeling that bliss I'd had as a child, the bliss that I'd lost somewhere along the way to adolescence. I wanted to tell her about how I thought of the old gang, and how I missed them all, but hated them so much. I wanted to tell her about how tired I always was, and how much pain I was always in, and the bad trips, and how much I hated most of my friends, and how much I hated my girlfriend, and how I couldn't stand who I was, who I'd become. I wanted to tell her about how I didn't even recognize myself in the mirror anymore, and I couldn't feel anything but anger and sadness, as much as I tried to feel other things. I wanted to tell her how many times I'd run the razor over my wrist, just to know how it felt, and how many times I'd tried to overdose on Tylenol but couldn't get over the fear of 'what if there really was something after death and I'd still have to keep going on feeling and thinking and all that shit?' I wanted to tell her how everyone in the world had turned on me and hated me, and I needed her to not hate me. I wanted to tell her how she needed to be on my side, how I needed her in my corner, because everyone else had abandoned me. I wanted to tell her how sorry I was.

I gently pulled her back so I could look into her eyes, my hands on her bare shoulders. She seemed in awe of me. Like she couldn't grasp that I was really there, that I had just kissed her, that she was on top of me, and I was holding her like I was still falling and she was the last thing that could keep me standing. Like she couldn't quite figure out who I was or what I was.

And then I opened my mouth, to tell her everything I wanted to tell her, and it spilled from my lips.

"I love you, Reg."

And suddenly, there was nothing else I wanted to say.

Her eyes widened, if it were possible and she pressed her lips together. She pulled from my touch, coming to her feet slightly and looking ready to collapse. I took steady breaths, watching her, studying her every feature, wanting to memorize her, everything about her. I didn't want to forget her, not even the tiniest detail, as I rotted away in Colorado.

Goddamn it. Why did she get to be so beautiful, so pure, so perfect? When everyone else in the world was so flawed and cracked and hideous?

"You're drunk," she finally found her voice, saying it accusingly, and I flinched. My heart sank. What little hope had filled it was crushed and gone. It darkened over, as did her look. "Go home, Twister."

I shook from her gaze, looking about dazedly and feeling as though I had just woken from a trance. I couldn't separate my emotions, they all started out as different and melded into one. Shattered. Vulnerable. Pained. Broken.

And then, just, alone.

I pulled myself to my feet unsteadily and looked away in a fidget. I was shaking and uncertain and trying to compose myself. I turned and made my way down the alley, turning the corner and heading for my house. I crawled up into my window, stumbled to bed, and collapsed, staring into the darkness blankly.

Everything was so fucked.

* * *

END A/N: As I mentioned previously, this is my favorite of all the chapters I've written for this story. I personally feel that it's the best I've done. It's the only chapter I have written so far (it'll probably remain the only chapter even when I'm finished) that's told entirely from Maurice/Twister's POV. Please feel free to tell me whatever you thought of this chapter in a REVIEW! I would appreciate it like you have no idea!

Slight explanation: For anyone confused on the convo between Twig and Maurice, the whole deal is that Twig asks Maurice in drug addict street slang, if he's getting himself sobered up. Maurice says no, then on a hunch (guided by the fact Twig is talking like a user himself) asks in similar street slang if Twig has any drugs on him. Nothing else really needs to be explained, but if you would like further clarification on anything, feel free to ask me in an e-mail or a REVIEW, and I'll do my best to explain it to you.

Please excuse any grammatical or typing errors. REVIEWs are the best way I can think of to tell me how you felt about this chapter, and I love them no matter what they say! So go on...press the button.

Thanks for reading. All ya'll ROCK!


	9. Tripping

A/N: So...I was just perusing the site, and noticed that it had been two months since last I updated. Now, I know my updates tend to be like the old man's teeth, few and far between, but that was a bit unacceptable to me. So. Yeah. I'm sorry. My life's just been completely hectic lately, and if any of you are wondering, yes that means I haven't gotten much, if any, writing done on my fanfics. But I won't bore or worry any of you with the details before the show. I'll just move on to the thank-yous:

SteffeWeasley26: I really would love not to have to put this story on haitus for an undertermined amount of time, but it's really looking like that's not gonna happen and I'm really sorry about it. Whatever happens, happens though, as I always say. If I don't, however, get around to finishing the story, maybe I'll answer one question from everyone. I don't know. We'll see what happens. Maybe I will finish it. God, that would be awesome.

VUWildcat: Sorry it took so long. Your questions will be answered...sort of.

Warina-Kinomoto: Thank you! It was my favorite chapter, afterall. Like I'd said. I'm trying not to give up on this story...but there's so much going on in my life right now and everything is just so out of control...eh...but you don't want to hear it. I do have MSN messenger, and my e-mail is on my profile page.

Unlikelytobearit: I really did love that chapter, because so much happened in the emotional department. Doug-E's speech to Twist gave me a hard time, I'm always struggling with him though. It's just that I know what I want him to say but at the same time I'm sitting her like "...will this be believable..." yeah. That whole ending though, the "I love you" scene was one I'd just had planned from the very beginning and it just flowed right out when I wrote it, so I'm glad to know that it touched you so profoundly. Sorry this chapter took so long, but I hope you enjoy it just as much.

ElasticBones7.2.4: Dude, I just glanced at your profile. That is so kick-ass of you to rec my fic like that. I was in awe that you would do that...so...yeah...blushing now...anyways...I hope this update alert ellicites just as enthusiastic a reaction from you as the last one. I get what you're saying about Doug-E's speech, and like I said up there, I really struggled with that one, so the fact that you got it and it registered for you is awesome. Thanks! I'm a golden writer? Yay!

salsipuedes: Ah...I do so love your reviews. Stepping on eggs...hehe...sorry, I'm tired. Um...anyways, yup. Very perceptive, my friend. Maurice is at the very bottom of the rocks. What's the first step? Is that the admitting you have a problem one? Anyways, we get to meet this Colorado fellow in this chapter and I really hope you enjoy him to some extent. I'm kind of a little fond of him...not as much as I am of Lou, but that's okay. And now I'm babbling. I think you'll be surprised the kinds of things Maurice is about to endure...at least, I hope you'll be surprised.

Alex: You're gushing is making me blush! I'm glad, as always, that you liked the chapter so much. I did find that whole chapter just so heartbreaking. The scene between Lars and Twister, the scene between Reg and Twister. A lot of angst and emotion and just...oi...anyways. I'm not saying anything about your foreshadowing theory...not one little thing. Though I will say this, I'm glad you're looking deeper than what's said...because there is a lot of hidden subtext in the characters' interactions with one another. So...read on and enjoy!

MissConfused: Thank you for redirecting my attention, somewhat, back to this fanfic. The fact that you stayed up practically all night reading my story is not only awe-inspiring, it downright rocks. Thanks for your dedication! You're awesome!

I think that's everyone. Reviewers rock!

ENJOY!

* * *

Chapter 9: Tripping

_No sex, no drugs, _

_no wine, no women _

_No fun, no sin, no you, _

_no wonder it's dark _

_Everyone around me is a total stranger_

_Everyone avoids me like a cyclone ranger _

_Everyone_

-The Vapors, "Turning Japanese"

Mrs. Dullard watched like a hawk from her window the entire morning as Raul packed up the Rodriguez car. It wasn't as though she were nosy. Of course not. She was a caring neighbor. Concerned, to be more precise. If it weren't for the fact she was good friends with the Rodriguez family and cared very deeply for the boys as though they were her own, she would not have paid it any mind. And besides, she had a young boy of her own to worry about. She should be kept up-to-date on all that is going on throughout the neighborhood that could affect her young impressionable Sammy.

At least, that's what she would have told anyone that asked.

It was somewhere around four-thirty when Raul had come out to start loading the car with luggage. Mrs. Dullard was already up doing her aerobics work-out and running a mental list of all the things she would need at the grocery store. She had fifteen minutes before she had to start making Sam a healthy lunch, and prepare his soy protein breakfast. Her husky little baby boy needed to diet, at least, that's what the doctor said. She didn't believe for a minute there was anything wrong with her son's size, and was quick to admonish this to him. That's when she'd seen from her window, always partially open to keep an eye on the front of her house, just in case a burglar or solicitor came up her walkway, of course, not to watch her neighbors, of course not. No sir, she was not nosy. Their business was their business.

She'd immediately paused her tape when she saw Raul step from the Rodriguez house with the first bag. He didn't appear to be packing much. Just a few duffle bags, a cooler, some overnight bags, that sort of thing. It looked almost as though he were preparing for a camping trip or something along those lines, if one didn't factor in the fact that Raul was a very busy lawyer constantly swamped with work. Around five, he headed back into the house, and things were dead.

Behind schedule, Mrs. Dullard had rushed into the kitchen, throwing together a quick lunch of an apple, a peanut butter sandwich, and a sugar-free, fat-free, sodium-free, taste-free apple juice. She began making a breakfast, leaving the kitchen window open and keeping one eye on the Rodriguez house.

It was around five-fifteen when things became curious. The door had opened again, and this time Raul shuffled out, hand clasping his youngest son's neck and leading him towards the car. Sandy followed closely behind, and the eldest boy filled the doorframe, leaning heavily against it and watching his parents and younger sibling wearily. He was wrapped in a large sweater, still dressed in his night clothes. The youngest, Maurice, Mrs. Dullard was sure his name was, was dressed in crumpled jeans, a t-shirt, and a hoodie pulled half-way over his head. His sneakers weren't even tied. Mrs. Dullard clucked her tongue peevishly. All of Maurice's clothes appeared at least three times too big for him. If it were her son, he would be dressed properly in garments that were neatly ironed, and fit him snugly.

She didn't even glance over her shoulder when the kitchen door swung open and a tired "morning mom" was mumbled. Eyes fixated out the window, she set a bowl of Fiber Flakes on the place mat in front of her still half-asleep son, poured in a bit of soy milk, ruffled his hair, which he promptly ran his hands through to "fix", and fetched him a glass of orange juice.

Raul had released Maurice, who stood in a slump beside the family car. He went to speak to Sandy, and not for the first time in Mrs. Dullard's life, she wished she could read lips. They exchanged words for what seemed minutes, and Mrs. Dullard itched, wanting to know what was being said. It wasn't until the ice cold chill of liquid spilled over her hands that she jolted and peeled her eyes from the scene across the street. She quickly grabbed a sponge to mop up the orange juice that dripped over her hands and down the counter. She cleaned up the glass, slammed it in front of Sammy, she wasn't much for cursing, but she mumbled a "darn" as she turned, transfixed, back to the neighbors.

Raul was hustling into the driver's side of the car. He said something to Maurice and received only a look of disdain in response. Sandy moved to, evidently, grasp her son in a motherly embrace, but he pulled away quickly, jerking the car door open, sliding in, and slamming it shut in her face. Sandy looked lost, wringing her hands in her dress, tears ready to spill. Her eldest son came up behind her, wrapping an arm over her shoulders and she curled in to hug him tightly as Raul pulled the car from their house and down the street, out of Mrs. Dullard's view. The eldest son led his mother back into the house.

Finally, Mrs. Dullard turned away from the strange exchange. A father-son trip was way overdue for those two, Mrs. Dullard could have told them. But that whole scene reeked of weirdness. They weren't going camping or fishing, there was no equipment. It had to be a road trip, because none of the bags were marked for flight. It couldn't be too far away, as there hadn't been too much luggage, between them there was at least a bag and a half each. They couldn't be staying for long, either. She frowned, watching her son chewing his cereal with a disgusted face while reading a comic book. But then, they couldn't be leaving town, could they? It was the end of the school year. Maurice had finals to take, and placement tests for high school. And, of course, Raul was a busy lawyer. He was one of the best, not to mention bilingual, highly in demand in Southern California. Where could they possibly be going?

"Sam," Mrs. Dullard started. She wondered if he would know, "You and that Rodriguez boy are good friends…"

"Not really, mom," Sam muttered, poignantly annoyed, "Unless you define good friends as total strangers or embittered enemies. Because then, yeah, we would be the best of friends."

"Oh," Mrs. Dullard could hardly hide her disappointment, "I just thought you and him hung out."

"Not since the seventh grade, mom," Sam retorted, pushing his glasses up his nose indignantly. He paused, looking to her curiously, "Why?" Mrs. Dullard turned to do the dishes, though there were only three in the sink. A butter knife, the cutting board, and a pot soaking from dinner the night before.

"Oh, no reason," she answered carefully, "I just saw that Raul and his son were headed out of town, and I was worried. Maybe there was a family crisis and I should bring over a bunt cake or something. Offer my condolences. I would hate for poor Sancha…"

"Sandra," Sam corrected, narrowing his eyes at his mother.

"Yes, poor Sandra, to think that her neighbors weren't there for her. A neighborhood is like a family and good families take care of one another."

"Right, mom," Sam said, rolling his eyes and taking his bowl to the sink. He snatched up his comic book and mumbled over his shoulder that he was heading over to the Rockets'. He grabbed his lunch pail on the way out and his backpack nestled beside the front door already packed for school. He distantly heard his mother call a good-bye to him, and he jogged from his house to the sidewalk, slowly walking from there towards the Rocket household.

Sam knew he was going to be early. Reggie probably wouldn't even be out of bed yet. But it couldn't be helped. He hated when his mother acted that way. Like everybody's business was her business. And when she tried to pretend like she knew or cared about what was going on in his life just to get information on the neighbors? He had to get out. Sometimes he just didn't know how Tito put up with her. Of course, they did date infrequently. So maybe even the jolly Hawaiian couldn't put up with her all the time.

Sam took a seat by the Rocket half-pipe, flipping out his laptop and booting it up. He opened the internet, thinking to browse his usual forums, but found himself staring, instead, at the house down the street. He took a deep breath, trying to shake himself back to reality. When was the last time he'd gone to that house? Rang the doorbell? Spoke with the people who lived inside it? He realized, as he peered over his laptop down the street, he'd never just looked at that house. It seemed smaller than he remembered. Smaller and quieter. Reminiscing, he'd always imagined it as a loud, cheerful, wonderful house. It seemed darker than the rest on the street now. As though clouds gathered only over it. He blinked a few times, thinking for a moment it was even raining just over the Rodriguez place like in a bad cartoon.

He faintly recalled his last conversation with Maurice as a friend. It was back when the redhead was still going by Twister. Him and that long haired boy had both come into the Shore Shack, hands shoved into their pockets, giggling. It was the middle of sixth grade for them, seventh for Sam. Sam had been sitting at the bar with Reggie. The two boys had stepped up to the counter, huddled together and snickering as though the entire world was one big joke.

_Where have you been, Twist? _Sam recalled asking. He'd spent most of that day looking for the other boy. Twister had asked Sam if he would help him with a project, they'd agreed to meet at the library, and after waiting two and half hours for the other boy to never show, Sam had searched worriedly all their Ocean Shore haunts to no avail. Only to resign to the Shore Shack and find Reggie. He voiced his concern to her, and she assured him that Twister had probably forgotten. She'd added, with a peevish mutter, that _Twister seems to be forgetting a lot of things lately_.

_It's all cool, Squidly one_, Twister had retorted to Sam, and the two boys had broke into laughter again.

_I take it you don't need help on that project anymore? _Sam had demanded haughtily. Twister had stared blankly at him, confused. He had no idea what project Sam was talking about.

_Right_, he had chirped all the same, smiling proudly and then breaking into giggles, _I got it all under control, dude._ He'd swayed, as though he were going to fall over and leaned heavily against his long haired friend for support, who'd simply burst into more laughter.

_Oh, well thanks for telling me_, Sam had spat sarcastically, _I only waited around the library for three hours! I do have other things to do, man. You could have called and…_

_What's the problemo, squishy-Squid? I thought you liked the library? Isn't that where nerds…like…gather together…?_ Twister had interjected and Sam had flustered. It wasn't the first time Twister or anyone had called him a nerd, but there was a harshness behind it. As though he'd truly meant it to be an insult.

_The nerd mother ship_, Twister's friend had commented in a low whisper and both boys broke into laughter once more. Reggie had been listening and chose the moment to step in.

_Twist, what's your problem?_ She had demanded, _If you say you're going to meet someone somewhere, you should meet them there. Or at least call and tell them you're not gonna show. Don't be a lame-o._ Twister had pulled a serious face, tugging one hand from his pocket, standing straight, and saluting her.

_Yes, ma'am._ He'd piped. Then, after a few seconds of holding that pose, he had broken into snickers, as did his friend and they stood there laughing, as Sam and Reggie watched uncertainly, both fuming. Ray had chose that moment to come from the back of the store, stepping up to the counter and looking down at the kids.

_Hey, Twist, what's going on? Here for some grub?_ Ray had asked, not noticing Sam and Reggie's dark glares.

_Yes,_ Twister had supplied, shoving his hands back into his pockets, _Major munchies, captain comb over._ It had taken a moment for that one to sink in, and then Ray's eyes had bugged out slightly.

_Excuse me?_ He'd gaped.

_We are hungry_, Twister had announced, staring expectantly at Ray. For a moment, the oldest Rocket had seemed unsure what to do. And then he had straightened, evidently deciding to let it slide.

_What'll it be? _He'd asked, forced pleasantness as this was his son's best friend and a kid he obviously was having trouble reminding himself that he liked.

_Pizza!_ The long-haired boy had quipped, and they had both looked eagerly up at Ray, who looked bewildered down at them.

_We don't serve pizza_, he had told them bluntly, _Why don't you look over the menu and then tell me what you want._ Twister and the long-haired boy had looked over the menu, then back to Ray, barely fighting the snickers shaking between them.

_Pizza_, they had both announced once more.

_We don't serve pizza_, Ray had repeated, exasperated.

_Pepperoni pizza_, Twister had tried again, seeming confused and a bit frustrated. Ray had started strumming his fingers impatiently on the countertop, looking helplessly to his daughter and Sam, then back at the impertinent boys.

_Twister, I don't know what kind of joke you're pulling, but you know very well that we don't serve pizza here. I don't have time…_

_What the hell kind of restaurant doesn't serve pizza? _Twister had suddenly broken out, enraged, his friend still giggling beside him, _All I want is a pizza. Just one fucking pizza. Are you denying us service? It's because we're kids, huh? Because I'm Mexican? It's because I have hair on my head and not in my nose like you, huh?_

_Now that is enough_, Ray had snapped, _Twister Rodriguez, I don't know what's come over you, but you're mother's going to be getting a call from me tonight. Now if you don't mind, I think you should leave. Don't come back until you get out of your system whatever's making you act this way._

That hadn't seemed to go over well with Twister, as he turned to Sam and Reggie and commented wickedly, _What the fuck is he so tweaked over? Mid-night crisis? Goddamn, this fucking blows._

_Out. Now._ Had been Ray's response. Side by side, the two boys flitted away.

_It's not a good restaurant anyways,_ the long haired boy had stated matter-of-factly to Twister, loud enough for the Shore Shack patrons to hear_, If they don't serve pizza. And they got squirrels, man, definitely squirrels. Somebody should call the health food people. _They had then broke into snickers and disappeared around the corner.

Ray had made his way into the back once again, shaking his head. Sam, who had been closest to the two boys, had turned to Reggie, a fear deep in the pit of his stomach as he had seen into Twister's eyes, seen how glazed over they were and that the pupils were dilated. And that smell that had clung to his clothes was unmistakable.

_What was up with him? _Reggie had been muttering.

_I think he was high_, Sam had told her. And she had fallen silent, peering up at him. And then, like a boundary had finally been crossed, they suddenly burst, spilling out things that had happened over the school year, voicing concerns, and recalling moments that, looking back on it, Twister had probably been high during as well. It had been then that they had agreed, silently, to start shutting him out. They hoped, at least Sam had, that if they showed Twister they didn't approve of his new behavior, he would stop.

Sam blinked, with a heavy sigh, his gaze away from that house and memory. He stared at the gravel instead, studying the deep black, scuffed and worn, cracking, and re-tarred in various areas. He ran his fingers over his laptop keyboard, tapping the keys lightly and trying to focus on what he'd been doing. Looking once more to his forums. They were discussing a new video game that came out recently. A first person shooter, the next version of Halo. He thought to post a comment, but couldn't think of anything worth saying. He closed the window without posting and stared blankly at his mecha anime background.

"Hey, what's up?"

Sam startled, nearly knocking his computer from his lap as he spun to face Otto, who was walking down the driveway towards him, skateboard in hand and helmet on head.

"How's it hanging, Otto-man?" Sam greeted, trying to sound cheerful, as he began to shut down his computer.

"Why you here so early, man?" Otto asked, clambering up the half-pipe.

"No reason," Sam sighed, glancing towards the Rodriguez house.

"Yeah, well. Reg is inside, if you want to go hang with her and do…" Otto made a strange face, "Boyfriend girlfriend stuff." Sam rolled his eyes, closing his computer and pulling himself to his feet. He made his way towards the house, then paused in consideration. He took a deep breath.

"My mom said that Raul and Maurice went on a road trip this morning," he stated casually, glancing at Otto from the corner of his eye, trying to discern the Rocket boy's reaction, "Uh…yeah…she said they looked like they'd be gone awhile…"

Otto lowered his head, messing with the helmet clasp. He was predictably unreadable and Sam sighed slightly. He didn't know what he had expected. A little enthusiasm on Otto's part, maybe? Something to show that the Rocket boy wasn't completely void of emotion those days? Everything, from his 'carefree' smile to his 'boisterous' laugh sounded so automatic. It was almost painful to witness.

_Otto-matic._ Sam frowned.

"Right, then," Sam muttered, clearing his throat and heading towards the house.

"Hey, Sam," Otto mumbled, and Sam halted, staring straight ahead at the Rockets' front door, "Remember that time when Conroy shut down Madtown because someone did a face plant in his new vert ramp?"

"Uh…yeah…man, that was way back when…" Sam answered carefully. He remembered clearly those awful days when the popular skate park was shut down and a lot of angry skaters had no where to go. All because Maurice refused to admit that it had been him that had left his mark in the cement. Sam took a deep breath, before turning to peer at Otto, who had finished adjusting his helmet and had set his board down at the top of the ramp. He wasn't paying much attention to the other teen.

"I just…I've been thinking about it was all," Otto continued, casually. He looked up then, meeting Sam's eyes. His own were hardened, stone cold and Sam shuddered under their piercing gaze. He'd never seen Otto so serious. "You should go check out what Reg is doing. She's been acting weird ever since she got home from helping out at the Shore Shack last night."

"Uh…yeah….right, Otto," Sam stammered, shaking away from that dark conversation and sprinting up the walkway to the front door. He nodded to Ray, who was seated in front of the television flipping channels, as he entered the small household and shut the door quietly behind him.

"How's it hanging, Sammy?" Ray called over his shoulder, pausing on a fishing program momentarily before resuming changing stations.

"It's…uh…hanging well," Sam answered awkwardly. He wasn't sure how to act around Ray now that he was Reggie's boyfriend. Was their relationship supposed to change or alter in someway? He peered at Ray curiously. The older man seemed to not be as interested in Sam as he was in the little glowing green number in the corner of the screen flashing the channel he was currently on. Sam sighed, "…uh…so Reg would be…"

"In the kitchen," Ray gustily informed him, eyes never leaving the screen. Sam nodded, edging his way from the room.

The moment Sam stepped into the kitchen, he felt a shudder race up his spine. The atmosphere was thick, dark. The shades were still flittering over the windows, and the light had yet to be turned on. Reggie was dressed in a large t-shirt, obviously one of Otto's old ones, and baggy sweatpants. Her hair fell about her face, and looked as though she hadn't so much as brushed it. She was leaning over the sink, dumping the contents of her cereal bowl down the drain, while bringing a tentative hand up to turn the faucet on. Sam stood patiently in the doorway waiting for her to notice him.

She placed the bowl down with a clatter, and, turning the water off once more, grabbed a dishtowel to dry her unsaturated hands. She wasn't ready for school, Sam decided. That explained her appearance. It was still early. When she finally noticed him, a faint smile flickered over her features and she turned, leaning against the counter and crossing her arms over her chest.

"Hey," she greeted, her voice quieter than usual.

"Hey, Reg. Uh…you okay?"

"I'm fine," she told him, with a small spike of forced perk.

She pulled her hair back with her hand, bunching it at the base of her neck and walking across the kitchen past Sam. He could see her hand trembling and the slight red under her eyes as though she had been crying recently, hear the deep, composing breaths she was taking, and easily assessed that she was not fine. He decided not to push it as he followed her upstairs to her room. She picked up an elastic band, tying her hair back and slumping onto her bed as she pulled her shoes, balled up socks inside of them, out from under it and slowly began putting them on.

"You're early," she commented. She didn't sound like she cared too much.

"Yeah," Sam, taking that as his cue, a sign similar to that of a thumbs up, stepped into the bedroom, plopping in her desk chair so that he was facing her. He took a deep breath, shaking his head and giving her a look of exasperation, "My mom…you know how she is…" Reggie nodded distantly.

Sam clapped his hands together, blowing out his breath and looking around the room. She hadn't cleaned it, obviously. A few garments were scattered around the floor, her book bag was flung to the side and her homework spilled out over the desk. A few of her picture frames were knocked over. A poignant sting pained his chest as he noticed a group shot that still stood on her bed stand. It had to be at least four years old.

He'd forgotten how young they'd all once been and how big their smiles could be. Sun stained hair, bright clear eyes, and smooth prepubescent faces grinned out at Sam. They all four had their arms flung about one another. They looked so happy, and he couldn't remember why at the moment. Their surfboards stood tall in the sand behind them, their wetsuits clung, soaked, to their small, young bodies. He lowered his eyes, unable to look at the picture for too long. He felt like it was accusing him and he didn't know why. He wondered how Reggie could stand to still have the thing up. To still have that young freckle-faced boy staring out at her.

"What's with Raymundo?" Sam asked, trying to strike up a conversation and wondering why Reggie was putting her shoes on. Didn't she need to change for school? She didn't even have any make-up on. Reggie rolled her eyes, her breath coming out in a half-hiss, half-sigh, and she shook her head in agitation.

"The cash drawer was short about two hundred last night at the Shack," she explained fervently. Sam's eyes went wide, and he suddenly realized what must be bugging Reggie.

"He accuse you?" Sam questioned, leaning forward to peer at her. She shook her head, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face back up into her ponytail.

"No. He's just seriously bummed out about it. Yesterday was slow enough as it was…he just can't figure it out. Nobody except him, Tito, me, Otto, and you know the password to access the register. He's baffled…thinks the new security system failed him…which I might add, he's still paying off," Reggie muttered, "I don't know why he got the damned thing. We never had problems before…well…there was that one incident like two years ago, about five hundred was taken from the register in the middle of the work day. But that was _two years ago_," she shook her head again for good measure, and turned her focus on plucking at an unraveled string from her blanket, "I think he's worried…you know…that Otto took the money. I told him that was completely off-base! But then who does that leave? Tito was with me and dad when we think the money was taken." She frowned at Sam.

"It wasn't me," he insisted, pulling back and holding his hands in front of himself defensively.

"I know," Reggie muttered, "Whoever took it knew the password though. The drawer wasn't pried open." She slumped on the bed studying the space between her door and the floor. A silence fell over them that Sam found unsettling. "Can you keep a secret?" Reggie asked in a voice so quiet, Sam didn't realize it was her who had spoken at first.

"Uh…yeah…you know you can tell me anything," Sam assured her. Her eyes remained on the floor and when she spoke again, it was in such a small whisper that Sam had to lean in close and strain his ears to hear.

"Twister was there last night," she said.

"What?" Sam sputtered, "At the Shack?"

"Yeah," Reggie went on, "He was in the side alley. I saw him when…when I took the trash out."

"What happened? Did he say anything? What did you do?" Sam demanded, suddenly on his feet as a million images of edgy late night scenes in a dark alley burst through his mind, "He said something to you, didn't he? Reg, what did he do to you?" Her cheeks turned a bright pink and she brought her hand lightly to her mouth.

"Nothing," she finally stammered, then meeting his eyes, she stated more firmly, "He didn't do anything to me. Nothing like you're thinking, at least," she murmured, lowering her eyes once more and delicately tucking her hair behind her ears, "He said…well…he was drunk. He didn't know what he was saying and…he…well…it doesn't matter."

A sinking feeling settled in the pit of Sam's stomach, and he fell heavily back to his chair, defeated.

"Reg," he began slowly, and she peeked over at him, "You don't think…you don't think he took the money from the cash drawer…do you?" She looked away, fidgeting ruthlessly with her shirt. Obviously the thought had crossed her mind.

"He didn't know the password," she mumbled, though even she didn't sound completely convinced, "He couldn't have." Sam shifted uncomfortably in the desk chair. It suddenly felt a great deal harder than he ever remembered it feeling.

"Reg…he knew your family pretty well…it wouldn't have been hard for him…"

"_He didn't know the password_," Reggie insisted, snapping her tear-filled eyes to meet Sam's. He was taken aback by the look on her face and fierce adamant in her voice. She had to believe this, he could see. Even if everything logical in her mind screamed otherwise, she had to hold firm to Maurice's innocence. Sam just couldn't understand why.

_Twister's still in there…somewhere…I know he is. He has to be._

Sam swallowed hard. Why was this so hard for her? Why was it so hard for her to grasp that the boy they once knew had changed, that he was capable of bad things, that he'd done bad things, and that he would probably continue to? That it wasn't beyond his capabilities and moralities to do such a thing as steal money from the Shore Shack cash register?

"Um…Reg…" Sam started. He wondered if he should tell her. She glanced at him, and he took a deep breath. She'd find out sooner or later, wouldn't she? "Raul and Maurice left somewhere this morning. My mom said it looked like they'd be gone awhile."

"Huh?" Reggie's eyes locked with Sam's, and her whole face was contorted with confusion and an emotion that Sam couldn't quite recognize glistening in her eyes, "They left town? Today…this morning? Where to?"

"Uh…yeah…I…uh…don't know. They left this morning, I don't know where."

The silence between them dampened, and Reggie turned from him. Sam didn't know what to say, but he could see her shoulders trembling ever so slightly. He stepped forward to comfort her, but pulled back, suddenly lost in the middle of the floor.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, and he wasn't entirely sure she was speaking to him.

-0-0-

My father's car radio presets seemed to be programmed with every cheesy Spanish station playing in the Southern California area. And lo and behold, they lasted us all the way through to Middle of fucking Nowhere, Utah. I refused to speak to my father. So the silence was filled with upbeat mariachi bands singing about amor, their corazons, bailar, cantar and all that shit. When we stopped for gas I searched for something, _anything_ else. It was all static. And I hadn't had a chance to grab my CDs when we'd left that morning. I hoped my fucking brother stayed out of my room. But what did it matter? I was probably never coming back. I probably should have wrote out a will or something. _And I'd like all my music collection to go to Lou, my Hendrix poster to go to Doug-E, and since she likes taking them all and sniffing them anyways, that bitch girlfriend of mine can have all my clothes…_

I had slept through most of the beginning of the trip, because we'd gotten up so early and I'd had a huge hangover. My father, to his credit, not that he deserves any, said nothing about it. But then, he didn't seem to want to say much of anything to me, besides commands. _Say good-bye to your mother. Get in the car. Go use the restroom. Eat your food._ I wasn't a goddamned dog, but I found myself half-expecting a pat on the head every time I did whatever he told me to fucking do. Maybe he didn't notice I was hungover. You'd think my parents, naïve as they may be, would have realized the way I was retching when I woke up.

As I thought about it, I could barely remember leaving the house. All I could really focus on was the fact that my body was aching for a hit, just one little fix. When I'd gotten home the night before, I found that my parents weren't waiting up for me. That meant my brother kept his fucking mouth shut. Too little too late, asshole. So I searched the kitchen for my stash. I couldn't find it. I even checked the trashcans, inside and out. They were nowhere. Finally giving up, I had looked with dread down the kitchen drain. Fucking parents. I flipped open the cabinets under the sink and found nothing to huff. So I skulked back upstairs and finally passed out. The next morning, I pocketed some Sharpie markers for the trip. Who knew how long I'd be stuck on the road with my alleged father.

As we drove along I stared placidly out the window. The buzz from the markers didn't last long and I only had a few chances to sniff the things in gas station bathrooms. My mind floated freely over the highway, as my leg bounced out of rhythm to the fucking flamenco music serenading us from the speakers. God, it was so annoying. I glanced at the clock. Eleven-twenty-five.

"Aren't we going to stop at a motel?" I heard myself ask, chewing languidly on my fingernails and trying to ignore the overwhelming blare of my current headache. My whole body felt cold, like a block of ice, and I couldn't stop shivering. It didn't help that my father had the fucking air conditioner blasting in my face.

My father seemed to look at me in stun, as though he'd just realized I was sitting there. I guess he'd gotten used to my silence, maybe he forgot I could speak or something. I could taste blood in my mouth, so I moved on to another nail. My tongue was numb and swollen, I was thankful I couldn't feel it anymore. I had to pry my mouth open that morning to investigate why it was in so much pain when I had woken up. There was a large gash over the top of it, a gaping hole. I didn't want to look at it too long, it made me queasy. I didn't want to think about where it came from. I'd searched the medicine cabinet for pain reliever. The bottle of Tylenol was empty and I couldn't remember why or when they'd all gotten used up. I wondered if my parents flushed those down the drain as well.

"No. We will stop when we get there," my father finally answered, smoothing his hands over the steering wheel and then re-gripping it tightly as though afraid I'd suddenly snatch out and grab the damn thing. I didn't ask where "there" was.

That was all the conversation we exchanged on the road. I leaned my head on my hand and tried to drift to sleep. But my head was spinning and I felt on edge, like I'd just drunk ten tons of coffee and washed it down with a few pounds of energy drinks. There was no way I would sleep that night. Or any night for the rest of my life, for that matter. I watched the white divider lines on the road race by until I almost threw up again, and squeezed my eyes shut, leaning back into the chair. Someone fucking kill me.

The terrain had long since changed from city to rural. There were no bright lights even in the distance, and we very rarely saw another car. I realized, sitting there in the silence punctuated by upbeat Spanish guitar licks, I'd never actually been on a road trip with my father. We'd never done anything, just him and me. I picked at the bandages on my arm, and was surprised when a wet spot formed. I turned from my father, lowering my head and curling my hands in my lap, silent tears streaming down my cheeks. God, what was wrong with me?

I bit my inner cheek. I needed something. My whole body screamed for it. Something. Anything. God. We were in the middle of nowhere! Fucking nowhere! Who the hell knew where this 'old friend' fucking lived! Where the hell would I get my fixes? Oh god. Panic gripped my heart with a lung crushing jolt. Where _would _I get my fixes? I poked my fingers into my pocket, feeling the markers shoved deep inside and running my fingertips over their rigid plastic caps.

I was surprised when I realized we were no longer on the highway, but traveling up a steep rocky dirt road. I looked out the window, staring behind us. All I could see was trees and rocks and forest crap. The road was long behind us. As was civilization, I thought. And my wonderful drugs. I clutched tightly to the door handle. Maybe if I jumped I would roll out of the car at a turbulent speed, smack into a tree, and die on impact. It would be painful, but a lot less so than living on dry as the Sahara desert.

I noticed that pink and orange had spilled over the sky and could smell dampness in the air. I checked the clock. It was around six-twenty, sunrise. I glanced my father. He was sipping at his super sized cup of black coffee, blinking the sleep from his eyes. It seemed hidden, the small building. I found myself staring long and hard at it before I realized it was even there. The frame of the house was a light chestnut, and the walls appeared to be a bright white paper. There was a nice deck that seemed to encircle the entire place, and set at the foot of the stairs that led up to the porch was a statue of a jolly looking fat man. My father put the car into park and climbed out. I sat staring blankly, trying to take in the whole place and trying to figure out if I even cared about the details of where I was.

It didn't look like the rest of the forest at all. There was a large pond to the right side of the house, and glinting beneath the surface seemed to be the largest goldfish I'd ever seen in my life swimming around. Lily pads floated atop it with blossoming white and pinkish flowers, and insects flitted about atop the water surface. I didn't realize, at first, that the abundant brightly colored plants were not actually a part of the forest, but in reality, a well-maintained and carefully plotted garden. Sitting on the banister of the surrounding porch were tiny potted trees that made me feel like I was on a trip just looking at them, and green things hung from the roof.

My father motioned for me to get out of the car, and I reluctantly did so, shooting him the darkest glare that I could muster. I didn't quite enjoy the bright light burning my eyes or the crunch of the soft dirt beneath my sneakers. I wanted to run for it, and I looked longingly back along the dirt road the way we'd come. As though he'd read my thoughts, my father slipped his hand tightly around my arm, leading me up towards the house.

"You're early."

I jumped back nearly three feet, and I could feel my father startle as well, so I knew I wasn't the only one who hadn't seen the small elderly man standing on the porch trimming one of the small trees. He was short, with wrinkled olive skin, and a staid expression. His eyes were dark almond shaped orbs, and his hair was white, pulled into a small rat's tail at the nape of his neck. He wore long trousers and a white, long sleeved shirt. Loose fitting clothes that dwarfed him. I stared at him for a long time, wondering what kind of Jedi mind trick he'd used to hide in the bright daylight streaming on that porch. He stood straight-backed, looking at us with an aged wisdom that scared the hell out of me. I felt like he could see right into me, that he was glaring at my innards and I was pretty sure he could read minds that way he glowered dourly at me.

My father had released my arm, and climbed a few paces up the stairs. He paused, the older man having stepped before him. I watched silently, knowing damn well that I was gaping. And then, they bent carefully at their waists in a stately bow. I narrowed my eyes, as both men straightened and grasped hands, exchanging smiles. Did my father just _bow_ to someone?

"Nori," my father beamed, "It's been far too long."

"Hai," the man nodded, chuckling whole-heartedly and speaking with a thick accent that I didn't recognize. I had to strain to understand him and even then I wasn't entirely sure what he was saying, "How was your drive?"

"Long," my father joked, then glancing me, his expression pulled with seriousness. The older man's eyes followed, and soon they both stared at me, faces like stone.

"This must be Maurice," the old man stated firmly. I would have said something witty and sarcastic in return, but my mind was too distracted by the lack of drugs circulating my system for me to even bother thinking of one.

"Yes," my father confirmed, walking slowly back down the steps towards me and clamping a hand over my neck. I shirked away from his touch, but he didn't seem to notice, "Maurice, this is an old friend of your mother and me, Kazuki Nori. You will be staying with him."

"Yo," I muttered darkly to the man on the porch. He nodded, but said nothing.

"You must be hungry," he stated quietly, "I will make something."

"Thank you, Nori, but I have brought some food," my father said, smiling once more, "Sandra packed a cooler full of her home cooking, knowing how much you have missed it." The older man smirked, ushering us into the house and my father nudged me forward.

The inside was neutrally colored with light browns and beiges, deep reds, burgundy and oak. More little trees decorated the shelves, and the floor was wooden with nice tatami mats. The door slid open and closed, and I noticed that the walls really seemed to be made of paper. The older man took his shoes off, setting them to the side of the entry way and looking expectantly at me. I kicked my sneakers off as well and followed the older man into the back where a little table, only about a foot and a half off the ground, sat. On the sides of it laid out on the floor were little pillow type things of a light, pastel green. I stared dumbfounded as the older man motioned for me to take a seat. He said something about going to get dishes, I think, and disappeared down the hall around the corner, towards the kitchen I suppose.

My father came in behind me holding a small blue cooler. He followed down the hall as well, and I stood alone in that little area staring down at the little table. I tugged one of the markers from my jeans, keeping my eye on that hallway as I took a quick huff and shoved it back into my pocket. It didn't give me much of a buzz and I was reaching to take another when my father and the older man returned, carrying dishes with my mother's cooking on top. They set it all around the squat table and folded their knees beneath them as they took a seat on the pillows. They looked at me expectantly and I stared back blankly thinking about what kind of high I'd be riding if I were back home.

"Take a seat," my father told me. Another command. I did as he said, plopping unceremoniously onto one of those cushions, crossing my legs Indian style instead of tucking them under me like the older men, and watching the Nori guy serve the food. My father and him began eating, chatting about their lives and whatnot. I tuned them out, staring around the room, though not really seeing anything.

I had to get a fix, and I had to get one soon. My blood was boiling and my skin was frostbitten. I was fidgeting with my food, not even bothering to eat any of it. I wasn't hungry and just looking at it made me sick. My stomach wanted something else. My whole body wanted something else, and I would kill to get it.

My mind was too foggy to think it was weird we were eating on a tiny table sitting on the floor. I had to get out of there. I was not staying. There was no way in hell I was staying there. I needed my drugs. I needed it like I needed…no _more _than I needed air to breath.

God, how I needed it.

* * *

END A/N: Like a month or so after I started writing this, I saw the Karate Kid on tv and it struck me how some people might draw a few parallels between the movie and my story. So I just want to put to rest any inquiries about it. No, this story was not semi or partially or even slightly inspired by the Karate Kid. The truth is, I'm part Japanese. And the reason I started writing this is because I kind of wanted to do a story that somewhat touched base on my own personal heritage, from there grew this whole fic. I've strayed quite a ways now, actually, from my original intent. But I hope that somewhat explains Nori. For the most part, he is inspired and based somewhat on my grandmother. I just thought I'd let you know. And points go to salsipuedes for his "zen master" remark. 

I kind of really like the beginning of this chapter, because of the way it follows Sammy around and gives us more insight into his home life. Anyways, I'm tired, so I'm posting this and then maybe going to bed. Please, please, please, please REVIEW! I'd be eternally grateful and worship the ground on which you walk. Or...you know...just give you a thanks. But anyhow. Please excuse any grammatical or typing errors, I did kind of proofread while I was half-asleep.

And THANK YOU, as always, FOR READING! This rocker is signing out. PEACE!


	10. Anything But

A/N: This is the last chapter I have all written up. I figured I'd post it, because it would be wrong to withhold it knowing I'm not sure if I'll ever be updating anything again. My life is hell right now. I really loved this story and I really wanted to finish it...but I just don't have the time now.

So...ENJOY it while you can.

* * *

Chapter 10: Anything But

_Everything's broke_

_Gotta get back to a place I know_

_Never going back to a world that sings_

_Never going back, never fade away_

_Never fade away…_

- Pennywise, "Waiting"

The room that was supposed to be mine was small and bare. The floor was wood, the walls sliding panels of paper and flimsy oak or something like that. There was a small futon lying on the floor. I assumed I was supposed to sleep on it. There was no closet, just a beaten up armoire in the corner, I guess to put my clothes in. The door opened and closed with a schff sound, opening only to the outside as though it weren't a part of the , and I was left alone. I stared out at the emptiness, the bareness, the neutral tones that made me want to gag, the tiny wooden area that smelled of pine and screamed isolation. That was what it was, a lonesome island in the middle of a fucking forest. I dropped my bag to the floor and listened as the older man shuffled away to rejoin my father. He hadn't said much to me, simply grunting a "sleep" and leaving me to my "humble" abode. He didn't strike me as much of a conversationalist, listening intently during the meal as my father chatted away about his life on the West Coast as a successful lawyer. It took a great deal of effort to keep from rolling my eyes.

I dug the markers from my pocket, holding them like they were made of slender priceless crystal and could shatter under the slightest pressure. I chose the blue one, fingering it, admiring it, popping the cap off and letting the scent, bitter and acidic, seep into my nostrils. I took a deep breath, slumped to the floor and folded my legs, took another deep breath, pulling the air into my nose, reveling in the mind swirling smell. Take me into the sky, I pleaded, take me on a high. I was sick, shivering, pulsating with my hunger and lust for that buzz, for that rush. I needed to get through the night, I needed a minute of clarity to think. I needed a plan. I brought the marker tip close to my nose, covered it with my hand to entrap as much of that lovely scent as possible, drawing it deep into my chest, guiding it down my nasal cavity into my lungs. Such a sweet aroma. My head swam.

-0-0-

Raul watched as Nori poured the boiling tea into the small cups. Steam rose, sifting through the air. They were silent, warming their hands on the cups, wrapping their fingers about the smooth porcelain, breathing in the deep the aroma of the oolong tea. After a moment, Nori brought his respective cup to his lips and took a sip, replacing it on the table and glancing up at Raul almost expectantly, before bowing his head down once more. The silence was berating and finally Raul pushed the cup away, pulling himself to his feet and stalking towards the door, shoving it open and staring far into the night air, gasping for breath.

"You are troubled?" Nori questioned, and Raul nearly burst with anger. It took a great deal of will power to bite back the bitter remark balanced on his tongue.

"My son…" Raul managed to hiss, and Nori nodded understanding, but said nothing, prodding the other man to continue, "Where did I go wrong? How did I fail?"

"Do not lay blame," Nori commented quietly, sipping his tea, "Will only lead you in a circle, never give you the answers you want." Raul took a haggard breath, turning to face his old friend.

"What do you think? Can you help him?" he asked, and Nori swished the contents of his cup momentarily, before taking another sip and setting it down.

"No."

Raul shifted, taking another deep breath, sighing and leaning heavily against the door frame, staring at the ceiling. He wiped the dampness from his eyes, sniffing, fighting the sobs in his chest that had been struggling to escape since that night listening to his oldest son talk about the doings of his baby boy.

"So, it's hopeless," Raul moaned silently, studying the ceiling with bleary eyes. Nori pressed his lips together.

"I did not say that," he stated with ringing clarity.

"But you said…"

"You asked if I could help him," Nori interjected, looking up sharply to bore his stare into Raul, "I cannot. Only he can help himself. I can help guide him to the path of helping himself, but in the end, it will be up to him to do it. I cannot do it for him. _No one_, but he can." Raul swallowed hard, running the back of his hand over his eyes and slumping, peering over at the elder man.

"What do you think…?" he trailed off, eyes downcast, trailing the grain of the hard wooden floor. He could go no further with that question, but Nori understood.

"He is in many places. He is a child, and a man, and neither all at the same time, he seems overwhelmed by it, confused. He is very angry, but he doesn't seem to know at what. And he is unwise, he does not think," Nori paused, taking a long drawl from his cup and Raul opened his mouth for a moment, considering saying something, then shut it promptly. Nori put his cup back down, "He is very intelligent. I can see it in his eyes. Like a fox, he sees everything. But he has no confidence. No respect. First he must learn to trust…to trust the one person he never has."

"Who?" Raul found himself quipping, stepping forward, entranced by Nori's words.

"Himself."

Raul took a deep breath, shuddering as he exhaled and wrapping his arms around his body. He looked out again into the dark night, crisp air cradling his shivering form. He'd never thought of Maurice as lacking in confidence. In fact, there was a point in time when he would have chided the young boy for being overconfident. He looked out at the mountainous landscape and briefly wondered for the first time since the decision was made if they were making the right choice. Perhaps he should take Maurice home, ground the young boy and overindulge him in love. Love could solve this problem, right? Love could bring back that bright eyed youth that Maurice had been. Couldn't it? That's how movies advertised it. Love was the most powerful thing on the face of the planet, right? Love could do anything. Cure cancer, give sight to the blind, stop bedwetting, and taper violence. Raul shook his head, shook away those notions. He'd always loved his son. Something aching in his heart told him that love was not enough. He glanced back to Nori.

"How did this happen? How did I miss this?" Raul questioned, choking on his words, "I thought we had raised our children to know better. I thought we had taught them…"

"Sometimes knowing is not enough," Nori interrupted, "If you expect me to tell you how it happened and why…you will be very disappointed. I do not have those answers. I can only tell you that there is nothing you can do to change this. It has happened, it is."

"I love my son," Raul mumbled, "I guess I was not there enough…I was not a good enough father…"

"Enough," Nori snapped, and Raul subsided, his bottom lip trembling, "This helps nothing. This fixes nothing. For your son, you cannot do that. No more placing blame! It is late, you should sleep. I will get ready a place for you…"

"I didn't plan to stay the night, Nori," Raul explained solemnly.

"Do not be ridiculous. You were on the road for a long time. You will sleep now. I will get you a bed, make room." Nori shuffled to his feet and moved slowly from the room, Raul watching, reconsidering the protest that lay on his lips. He was overwhelmingly tired.

-0-0-

I lay staring up at the ceiling, my body trembling, as I tightened my grip on the marker I had moments ago been sniffing. The room was spinning and my eyes were out of focus. I felt like throwing up, but my body seemed to forget how.

_Best bro._

I squeezed my eyes shut and shook involuntarily. Why did he haunt me? Why did I have to think about him in moments like these? When I'm at my worst? Because he always liked to kick me when I was down, I suppose. Best bro. What a lie. What a fucking lie. That's all he was. One lie after another. I spent years building up an image of him, as the greatest at everything in the whole fucking world. A god, that's what I'd created him as in my mind. And then slowly, piece by piece, the illusion broke down, and all I was left with was this perverted picture of a grinning retard with a bush for hair. He was such a fucking pussy, how could I have worshipped him so?

Because. Because at a time when I fell flat on my face trying to pull off an olie, he was flying through the air with wings of gold and a halo that appeared so clean and shiny before I got close enough to see how tarnished it really was, before I realized those wings were really made of brass. He was about as perfect as his reflection, a mirage. He didn't really exist. He was a faded afterimage in my mind of someone else, the real Otto Rocket.

What a joke.

He could laugh loud, talk big, grin wide, and fly high, but he fell down just like everyone else. He wasn't a god. He was barely a person. I wasn't the lame-o. He was the lame-o. He was the lamest person on the face of the planet. And me? I was so much better than he would ever be. Because I could see through his carefully constructed façade to the cloudless sky beyond. I felt sorry for those suckers with him. Those suckers who were so sure of his perfection, of his godliness. Maybe they would learn the harsh reality beneath that glossy exterior, maybe it would tear them up inside. Maybe they'd want to kill themselves, maybe they'd want to get away. Maybe they'd realize they were nothing but lambs to the slaughter. And me? I broke away. I broke the fuck away. I was better than all of them. Because I escaped, because I saw the truth before it was too late.

I rolled onto my side, staring along the floor, tracing the grain of the wood, my necklaces clacking against the floor. Who was I kidding? I am the fucking lamb. I walked the thin line and fell into the ravine. I'm as dead as can be. I'm the sucker. I am the fucking lame-o. I'm the lamest one, the joke, the loser, the one that's barely a person. I fall every time I try to get up. And he's always there to point and laugh. That's his purpose in my life, isn't it? To remind me what a fucking failure I am? To remind me of that absolute perfection that I could never attain. I was so close to it though. I was close enough I could taste it. I could smell it. I could practically reach out and touch it. And then, in a flash, it was gone. I'm the illusion. He's still the pussy. But I'm the illusion. I'm the faded afterimage.

I closed my eyes. Dreamed of sleep. I used to be so ready to take the world by storm beside him. We were the two best players on the street hockey team at school. We kicked ass. We won every game. Because Otto couldn't stand to lose. No sir-ee. Losing was not on his agenda. Losing was his worst nightmare. Losing was his biggest pet peeve. And winning, winning was his top priority. The one thing in his life that ever really mattered. How I knew it. How I knew it better than anyone. Because I took the fall for him, so many times, so that he could get ahead. So that he could be the hero, the champion, the first place, winner, every fucking time. That's why I got kicked off the team, in sixth grade, wasn't it? Just taking the fall again. Just being pushed aside so that he could rise to the top.

_What the hell kind of passes were those? Not a single one was to me! Who's team are you on, anyways, Twister?_

Don't start this, again, I begged myself. But it was over. I was in it again. That fucking game. That one fucking game. How was it my fucking fault we lost? There were five other guys on our fucking team. How was I responsible? How was it all my fault.

_It was just one game! Chill out, dude._

_Just one game! Just one game! Twister, it was the goddamned championship tournament!_

_One less trophy. Oh fucking well._

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.

He shoved me first. It was all on him. He started it. But then, who the fuck cares. He was the fucking star of the team. I was the stepping stool. I was the one that held him high on my shoulders while he basked in all the glory. If I didn't pass him that goddamned puck, if I didn't steal it from the other team, bring it down the court, and pass it the fuck to him, points were never made. But it was all him. He did everything, right? Right. What a fucking lie.

_What's up with you lately, anyways, huh? Why are you acting like such a lame-o?_

Lame-o. God, how he loved that insult. Oh, I'm so hurt. So cunning and witty. What the hell does it mean, anyways? Asshole.

I wrapped my arms about myself, burying my chin against my collar bone, squeezing my eyes tightly shut. Fucking asshole. Goddamned fucking asshole. I dug my fingernails into my flesh and wished I had some stronger stuff, because my mind was far too active and it was seriously killing my buzz. Bastard. This was all that bastard's fault. He was always ruining my life, even when he wasn't in my life.

I picked the cross up delicately with my fingers and placed it against my nose, though I didn't know why. I could feel how cool and smooth it was, smell the metal in it. It was brass or something, painted glossy. I'd started wearing it a couple years back, though I didn't know why, I couldn't even remember where I'd gotten it from.

I pressed my hands against the floor. I could feel the wood's veins across my entire palms. They traced their ways up my skin, imbedded themselves in my flesh. It was as though they were writing a message on my hands, whispering into my palms. I could almost hear what they were saying, but they were so quiet and their words were so foreign to me. I wish I understood what they were trying to say, because it seemed important. When I'd sunk my fist into Otto's jaw that day, nothing had felt more satisfying. The way my knuckles connected with that long slender bone, the way my fist became one with his skin. He fell back, stunned, as though everything had just become clear to him and he didn't know how to take it. It was like he'd never been hit before, like I'd never hit anyone before. I felt every corpuscle of blood that rushed, bright red race cars, to the injured jaw line and glued themselves to the broken vessels. It was like watching a flower bloom as the bruise quickly formed under his bronzed skin. He had the smug glare of someone who'd just been proven right, and the first thought that had crossed my mind poured from my lips.

_Fuck you, Otto._

I stepped up to him, towering over him, glowering down at him. Sneering, daring him to do something about it. I could feel my rage like a comb running a course over my entire body. Try that again, I felt my lungs saying, try that again you little fuck. His face contorted something awful, like he'd smelled something rancid.

_You're drunk._ He said it flatly. It wasn't a question, it was a statement. That had really riled him up. I had lost the championship tournament, mind you it was all my fault, had nothing to do with the laziness of the other team members, their lack of picking up my slack. I had lost the entire championship tournament, single handedly, because I was drunk. He obviously didn't approve, the way he started yelling at me like I gave a damn what he had to say. I was drunk and he was a beady eyed weasel.

_Oh, boo hoo. We lost the fucking tournament. Such a fucking tragedy, why don't you go home and kill yourself if it was so goddamned important to you. _

I don't remember why I said it.

Oh, yeah I do. I was pissed and he was an asshole. Part of me really meant it, too. Part of me really wanted him to go home and slit his wrists or down a bottle of Tylenol or hang himself from the ceiling fan with his jock strap. Maybe that was more the drunk part of me than the sober part, but I really did feel the anger in those words.

When he swung this time, it wasn't a frustrated childish hit. He really meant to take me down. When I returned the favor, the same emotions raced through me. As we lunged at each other, rolling on the floor and wildly throwing punches with no systematical or tactical order, we weren't childhood buddies, we weren't good friends, we weren't best bros. We were like angels, fallen and lost. Him, so distorted by his selfish desires and dreams. Me, one melded clay of nothingness. By then, I was so broken, all he could see were the pieces that had once been me. But he didn't see me in pieces and fragments, he saw me as a whole, a hallow frame of flesh and bone, nothing to fill me up. Or maybe I was wrong, maybe he saw me like a mirror - no, a lake, some body of water. He thought he saw himself in me, but he couldn't see what was really beneath the surface. Maybe that had been our mistake all along. Maybe that had been his mistake all along. I had thought, once upon a time, that he could see more to me than that. He had thought that there was no more to me than that. I was just his "best bro". A shadow to his greatness. And that I would be happy as the little yes-man he'd assumed I would be.

I guess it wasn't like I had that bright light he did. It wasn't as though I shined from the inside out. A spot light from the heavens didn't beam down from breaking clouds to illuminate my face. Maybe I really was nothing. Maybe there really was nothing more to me than just an empty shell. I had no passion, I had no soul. I was and had nothing. Friends, like that's what anybody ever was to me. They're just shapes and forms without sympathy. They're too consumed by their own wants and needs, that they could give a rat's ass about the wants and needs of those around them. They're too blind to see the way they've written themselves off, the way they've wrapped themselves too far in their misery that they can't even see the sun in the sky anymore. And me? Fuck the sun, it's too bright anyways.

I was suddenly possessed with the energy to do something. To go somewhere, to be someone, to do _something_. So I lifted myself from the floor and stumbled partway to the door. I slid it open with that schiff and dunked myself into the moonlight. I tiptoed out, loathing the smell of dirt and pine sap. I nearly tripped as I walked around the little wrap around porch, and paused when I saw my father and that little man sitting, talking. I perked my ear, chewed my inner cheek, and watched alertly.

"…always been such a good boy. He would stir up childish trouble but that was all and Sandy and I thought that he would be a good young man. Maybe we went too easy on him. Our punishments were never as harsh when it came to him…"

"You cannot blame yourself."

"But how could he do this? I don't understand! He was a happy child! He'd never given us too much trouble. He'd had good friends, and we'd raised him in a good neighborhood, he…"

I turned away, crept into the darkness of the side of the house. I couldn't listen anymore. He didn't know anything about me. I wasn't a good child. How could I do it, he wants to know? How could I not! How could I not prick myself until I bled! I was a happy child so I could never be sad? Is that it? Is that how it is, father? I had good friends, so I couldn't be a bad person? Everything in my life was perfect, wasn't it? My entire life was a goddamned Kodak moment. How well you know me, father. How well you fucking know me.

I wanted to peel back my flesh so that he could see the maggots crawling underneath. You can't see in the darkness, can you, father? You can't see in my darkness. Can't see the demons lurking within. What is happiness, anyways? A chemical reaction. Serotonin and dopamine secreting in that one lobe that controls your emotions and all that crap. It's an illusion. A trick your mind plays on your body. It's not real. It never was. Nobody's ever _really_ happy. It's all just a lie. An elaborate trick your mind plays on you.

I curled my hands around the porch banister and stared out through the dark foliage of the forest. Where had we come from? How do I get back? Where is the path to the road? It was so cold out that night my entire skin crawled with shivers. I was drenched in sweat. I swung myself over the banister and fell without grace to the floor below. I straightened slightly, brushed my hands off as mud clung to the crevices in my palms and fingers and the knees of my jeans were damp stains. I wrapped my arms about my body and shuffled into the thick of trees, sometimes reaching out a hand to grasp a thin gray trunk and balance myself. Drops of sweat trekked down the sides of my face, and the brisk chill of the air berated my skin. I could feel my blood pumping, and hear the sounds of the forest like one giant raging beast. Panic gripped my heart. I could feel eyes, yellow and malicious, blinking at me. I could hear the leaves crunching, the crickets shrill cry. I collapsed against a large trunk, choked on the wood scent as I gasped for breath.

I jerked my head in circles, pushed myself from the tree and spun, looking in every which direction. I saw something that look like headlights in the distance. The road! I started towards it, paused. Wasn't that where I'd come from? No. I shook my head, took a step back. That led back to the little cottage. I spun again, took a step forward, paused. Oh god. Oh god. What was I doing? Where the hell was I? Did I come from that way, or the other way? Or…

I jumped, startled, as I heard the crack of a twig behind me. I spun my head, but there was nothing. At least…was that a shadow moving against the underbrush? I counted my heartbeats…fifteen….seventeen…twenty…twenty-two…too fast to keep up.

Again. Another noise, like something walking in the forest. Like something stalking. I started forward, tripped and slammed into the ground. I pulled myself back. The floor was moving! Shivering and slithering! I scampered backwards, fell to my backside and slid away. But they were brushing against my clothes, against my hands. I pulled myself to my feet, smacked at them as they burrowed into my skin, clung to my body. I picked them out, thrust them to the ground. There were so many of them. I stared in horror as they writhed and squirmed in the moonlight, staring up at me with eyeless faces. Accusing. I stepped back, cool sweat trickling my brow like blood oozing from a wound.

My heart pounded against my ribs. Escape. Escape. Escape. I gasped for breath, and broke into a run, forward, backwards, wherever the hell I was going. My muscles were like liquid, jostling in a clear plastic bottle. I ran, my legs pumping with adrenaline and blood. I ran, sweat pouring from my forehead into my eyes, matting my hair. I ran, my lungs expanding and contracting, pulling and pushing air from my body. I ran, my heart thrusting itself against my chest, begging for me to stop, pleading with me to keep going. I ran. But I would never escape. I would never get away. I stumbled, tripped and rolled to the earthy ground. I lay there in the soggy leaves, the cold mud, my muscles aching and my palms and knees and chin scratched from where they'd impacted against the ground. My mind was screaming, crying, sobbing. Tears slithered down my cheeks, mingling with dirt and sweat and blood. I sniffed but it hurt, like a rake digging its claws into my nasal cavity. My clothes stuck to my body, the only things left in this world that would cling to me. Hold me as though I deserved to be held.

God.

If there is a god.

Let me go.

Just let me the fuck go.

Stop trying to save me. I don't want to be saved. Just let me rot and die. Let me kill myself slowly. It's the only way I know how to live. It's the only way I want to live. I know it's not really living, but neither is just going about the way everybody else does. I don't want to feel like a zombie, the way they seem to be. I don't want to walk this earth with their feelings and their thoughts and their emotions. I want my feelings and my thoughts and my emotions. I just want to lie here and fade away. Fade from their memories, fade from the earth, fade from reality and life. God, I just want to die. Is that too much to ask? To just feel nothing else, think no more thoughts, and hear no more voices for the rest of eternity?

God. Oh god. Oh please. Oh please, god. Stop trying to save me. I can't be saved. I'm already lost. I'm already gone. I'm already dead. It hurts too much. Just let me go. Just let me go and leave me the fuck alone. Just everybody in the whole fucking world, just leave me the fuck alone.

I closed my eyes, tears silently cascading to the already wet soil. I could feel the world pressing into my chest. I could hear waves crashing in my ears. Dying. It's not the way everybody says it is. You don't see your life flash before your eyes. You don't see a blinding white light. You don't hear the comforting voices of your relatives who have passed before you. You just slip into the darkness. You let it invade you, engulf you. It wraps you in its icy embrace, whispers sweet silence into your ears, and crushes your organs and insides and outsides into oblivion. It presses itself into you, poisons the air in your lungs so that it burns down your esophagus and into your diaphragm, set off like an explosion. Dying. It's not subtle, like slipping into sleep. There's no pleasant dreams awaiting you on the other side. It's not a fuzzy experience, warm and soothing.

It's like…dying.

I welcomed it. I reveled in it. I spread my arms wide and let it in. There was no sorrow, no grief. I was apathetic, already disposed of all emotions. They're obsolete in death anyways. There's nothing left.

Death was an inevitability that I looked forward to.

* * *

END A/N: I know it was a short chapter. But it was poignant, to me at least. My second favorite. Ya'll know what my first fav is.

A _**REVIEW**_ would be loved. I'm sorry if I never update this again.

Please excuse any grammatical or typing errors, and Thanks for reading.

Peace.


	11. Never Look Back

A/N: I know, it's been awhile and you all are probably dying of heartattacks to see this update. I was suddenly possessed, I had to finish this chapter, and now my little dolls, I am late for work. All for you. Don't get your hopes up, but I really do want to try and start working on this story again. Maybe finish it and see if another story bites me to finish it afterwards.

Thanks for all the reviews, I read and cherish all of them. I love you all for your patience in me and see how patience pays off. It's kind of short. But anyways...

ENJOY!

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Chapter 11: Never Look Back

_I should've asked,_

_I could've helped,_

_At least a fucking thousand times before_

_Will this offer get me in_

_Or does it prove that they gave more and I_

_I won't lie, I won't sin_

_Maybe I don't wanna go_

_Can't you wait_

_Maybe I don't wanna go_

-Boxcar Racer, "Letters to God"

The heat of Summer was creeping its way into Ocean Shores, and Otto could feel it permeating his skin as he blurred the thin layer of sweat on his brow with the back of his hand. He watched the usual locals pass by the Shore Shack, noting the every now and then tourist here and there while chewing on the straw sticking out of his half-drunk cola. He was standing at the opening of the Shack, staring out at the beach. The horizon glimmered with red and orange and he could clearly see the ocean, smooth and flat as his old man's head.

"So, little cuz," a burly voice punctuated by a thick Hawaiian accent boomed from the back of the restaurant, and Otto sighed in return, "What's the hang up?"

"Nothing, Tito," Otto muttered, glancing the Shore Shack grill cook from the corner of his eye. He made his way over towards the bar and slumped onto a stool, spinning once before collapsing atop the counter, "I was hoping to catch a few waves but the ocean's smoother than a freshly polished board."

"I see," Tito conceded, running a rag over the countertop and eyeing the bummed Rocket boy over the bridge of his nose, "Nothing else to do?"

"Yeah…I'm banned from Madtown," Otto confessed sheepishly, slumping lower in the stool if it were possible.

"Banned, little cuz?" Tito perked, tossing the rag over his shoulder and leaning heavily against the counter to give Otto his full attention, "Now what did you do to get yourself banned this time?"

"Excuse me?" Otto sputtered, straightening and turning a glower the older Hawaiian man's way, "I did _nothing_ wrong. It was all that…that…_lame-o's _fault."

"Ah…" Tito nodded, turning to flip a burger on the grill nonchalantly, while trying to appear disinterested, "So…where are your friends, then?" Otto rolled his eyes, cupping his chin in his hand and picking a point on the wall to focus his eyes.

"They wanted to shred Madtown and I told them not to let me hold them back," Otto muttered, "They didn't." Tito glanced Otto's way.

"It sure would be nice if you had some sort of…loyal friend…who was, I don't know…always at your side no matter what," Tito said, glancing Otto out of the corner of his eye.

"Yeah…" Otto mumbled, staring blankly at the wall, "A loyal friend…that'd be great…"

"You know," Tito began slyly, "I remember when you were nine…we were getting ready for our big weekend surf trip and you, little cuz, got grounded for your bad grades." Otto startled, narrowing his eyes at the large man, trying to discern what he was getting at though he already had a suspicion, "I knew a few little cuzes who were bummed the whole trip until your dad hopped in the Woody Wagon and didn't come back without you," Tito broke into chuckles, "Sam and Reggie and…who was the other little one. He seemed more bummed than any of them…"

"Later _much_, Tito," Otto growled, slamming the bar and spinning from the stool. Tito clamored over, grabbing at Otto's sleeve to keep him from leaving.

"Hold on, Rocket boy," Tito warned, and satisfied that the young man wasn't going to bolt from the store, he relinquished his hold, "I know you're getting a lot of different lectures right now, about how friends grow apart as they get older and things like that. But I know how close you two were, and a friendship like that doesn't grow apart."

"And let me guess," Otto snarled, spinning to face Tito with fury in his eyes, "The Ancient Hawaiians have a saying about this. I can only imagine what idiotic way coconuts and sand crabs relate to me today. Let's see, Tito, what do the Ancient Hawaiians have to say when a guy's ex-friend is a total lame-o that likes to get stoned and push girls around! What do they say about that? Nothing, huh?

"To be honest, Tito, I'm done talking about Twister, I'm finished with Maurice, and the whole Rodriguez family can sink into the earth and burn in hell for all I care! I'm tired of everybody being so understanding and as far as the Ancient Hawaiians are concerned, they can take their pineapples and sit on 'em!"

"I see," Tito mumbled grumpily, turning back to running the rag over the countertop, staring intently at the black granite, "Well then, let's not talk about Twister or Maurice or whatever you want to call him. Let's talk about you. Let's talk about Otto Rocket for a change. Your best friend is gone, doing whatever, being whoever, and no matter what you say you can't fool old Tito. I know it's tearing you up inside, little cuz. So talk to me. Tell me what's going on in that little head of yours."

Otto looked wearily at the portly man. Tito hadn't changed much in the three years. He was just as round, just as jolly as he'd always been. There were a few more wrinkles on his face, a few gray hairs starting to show through in his natural black. His eyes still twinkled with that usual wisdom. Otto had trusted that wisdom to get him through all the difficulties he would face in life but he wasn't sure it could help him now.

_What's going on in that little head of yours._ To be honest, Otto wasn't sure. He hadn't spent any time thinking about it. He was too busy raging about Maurice, hating the fucking bastard. He gritted his teeth now, not sure how to handle such a question. He'd never been great at talking about or even expressing his emotions. The only outlet he had for any of that was shredding, and he couldn't exactly do that at the time being. He took a seat back on the barstool, sorting through the past few days, and then, the past few years. How did he feel about all of it? What did he think about all of it? Tito was lending an ear, unbiased and good at listening. The problem was, did Otto have anything to say?

"I don't know what you mean, Tito," he finally said, "My life is perfect. My grades are good, I'm MVP on all my teams, I took second place in last summer's National Junior Surfing Tournament, and first in the Junior Freestyle Skate-off. And I'm a 'shoe-in' for the legendary Ocean Shores' Sharks. Everything is great. How'm I going to be bummed because of some lame-o ex-best bro?"

"Perfect, huh?" Tito scoffed, "Then why you sitting in here watching the day go by with an old, fat grill cook staring out at that ocean like it's going to get up and go somewhere if you peel your eyes away?"

Otto frowned, leaning back against the counter, his elbows propped up for support, staring out at the boardwalk that lead down to the beach. He'd grown up in Ocean Shores, never known anywhere else. He'd been born there. As far as he was concerned there was no world outside of Ocean Shores. And even then, it was only his Ocean Shores he was familiar with. His childhood Ocean Shores, that wonderful place where he'd run rampant through the neighborhood barefoot or on wheels. Everyone had been so goddamned happy back then. So innocent and sweet. The sun had always been shining and there was no wrong, evil, or sinister in the world. He was the happy-go-lucky protagonist in his story and the villains were always comical bumbling fools.

Three years ago, Otto Rocket never would have thought about drugs, alcohol, death, hate, and pain.

Three years ago, Otto Rocket knew who his best bro was, what he was going to do to pass the time, where his loyalties lay, and how to have the fullest extent of fun possible in the beachside town.

Three years ago, Otto Rocket's life was perfect.

But now? Now, he didn't know up from down. He didn't know who he could trust, who he could turn to, where he was going, and what the hell he was feeling. It wasn't happiness, that much was for sure.

"I don't know, Tito," Otto relented, "What am I supposed to feel? I keep thinking it'll all make sense. Like there's some hidden reason, some answer that's been there all along, I just haven't found it yet. Why do people end up the way they do?"

"I'm not quite sure, little cuz."

"He had everything. Every. Fucking. Little. Thing. It's not like his life is like those other potheads. He didn't grow up in a rundown ghetto. He had friends, he had family, he had a board…he had _me_!"

"Why weren't you enough to keep him from all of that?" Tito guessed at the younger boy's meaning. Otto frowned, slumping against the counter.

"I was his best bro, Tito," Otto raged, "He could have told me something was up! If they were forcing him into all of that…" he shook his head, "It's all of their fault. They pushed him to it. Maybe they lied to him…maybe they pressured him somehow! That's what they always tell us. Peer pressure is what gets kids into all that crap, right? How could he start hanging out with assholes like that?"

Otto fell silent, shaking his head and trying to sort through everything he'd just said. Tito went back to solemnly cleaning the counter until he finally put the towel up. A few customers came in, a small group of adults in business suits. Some of them had loosened their ties, their bodies relaxed. They ordered burgers, fries, sodas, salads, whatever. Otto watched them with interest. He could almost picture himself as one of them, and in a way, the thought scared the hell out of him. Was he going to be that white-collar prick, loosening his tie on lunch breaks and after work. Where was his life going, he wondered.

For the first time in his life, he was thinking about the future, about college, furthering his education and what he wanted to do with himself. Despite what he'd always believed, he couldn't skate and surf forever. It was a dream, but a childish dream. His dad had been just as good as him and never got anywhere with shredding. What made him think he would be going anywhere? Because he could shred better than anyone in Ocean Shores? Because he practically lived on a board, and boards were his life? Otto shook his head, knocking some of his frizzy locks from his face.

Did Maurice ever think about the future? Otto used to think their futures were intertwined. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head held between his hands.

What is a friend, Otto found himself wondering. What defines a friend? As a child it seemed so much easier. _A friend was someone you had fun with, someone you laughed with. A friend was any kid that you met that could run and jump and play._ When you were a kid, you never talked to a friend. Friends were never people you talked with. With time the definition of a friend changed. You start to string abstract meanings to the word "friend". _A friend is someone who understands you. A friend is someone who likes you for you, is there when you need them._ The criteria for a friend became more specified and detailed, the standards were risen.

That's when friends from childhood became distant.

Tito glanced up when Otto made his way from the Shack, calling a goodbye. Otto waved distractedly over his shoulder. He made his way swiftly down the boardwalk to the beach. There were a lot of kids there, mostly locals taking advantage of the heat before shoobie season was in full force. It was a nice day. The kind of day that Otto would usually spend doing something, anything, like riding a bike, rollerblading, skateboarding, surfing. He wasn't dressed for the beach, wearing jean shorts and a beige shirt, sneakers sinking into the sand. He stopped midway down to the ocean, watching the surfers in their smooth, precise movements.

Otto realized he didn't feel like going to Madtown that day anyways. It was tainted. Stained with dirt so red that it was almost black. Its innocence, its virginity was gone after that day. After so many days. Stepping foot on the pavement he'd shredded for so many years made him nauseous, just thinking about it turned his stomach. There was nothing good left there. He plopped to the sand, loving the heat that each grain soaked up from the sun, disregarding snide comments from locals, "You going swimming dressed like that, lame-o?" He dug his fingers in the sand, grabbing a fistful and raising it eyelevel so he could watch the golden granules slip through his fingers.

Isn't that just like life? Trying so hard to grasp onto something solid only to watch it slip through your fingers? Otto felt entirely sick.

Maurice Rodriguez. Otto spent so much time trying not to think about the other boy that it consumed his whole being. He dreamed at night that they were racing. On foot, running down the shoreline. Sometimes Maurice was chasing him, sometimes he was chasing Maurice. Sometimes he wasn't sure who was chasing who. It was always night, the moon was full and sat low on the horizon and lit the world and ocean silver. It almost felt like they were underwater. Otto's chest would ache, his muscles pumping though his whole body would beg him to stop. He'd wake up in a frenzy, heart pounding, out of breath and drenched in sweat, unaware of where he was and what was going on. They never caught up to one another in the dream.

And he never knew what it meant.

Now with Maurice gone to God knows where, Otto didn't know what to do with himself. He couldn't help but find it funny. It didn't make sense at all. They weren't friends, they spent no time together, they never spoke, barely saw one another. Maurice's whereabouts should have had no sway in Otto's life. But there was an emptiness now. A void unlike any Otto had ever felt. There was this sad, desolate and harrowing feeling behind his brain.

Before, Otto had always known where Maurice was, in a sense. But now, it was as though the other boy's absence in Otto's life was more pronounced than ever before. Otto closed his eyes, squeezed them as tightly shut as he could, trying to shut out the world, his surroundings. Everything became sound. Noises, children screaming, laughter, the ocean roar, water splashing, gulls crying out, people shuffling by, the world swirled around him like the beating of a heart. The world was one entire heartbeat.

In another heartbeat, it was gone. Everything faded from his mind, from his vision, from his conscious thought. All that was left was the beach. The pure white sand and the clear blue of the ocean. And a shadow cutting across it all.

It was so vivid in his mind, so much more than a memory, too solid to be a dream. That small figure, ten years of age. A heart shaped face and a lopsided grin. So young. So innocent. Happy. He stood there at the cusp of the shore. Red hair, deep freckles against a light tan, red and yellow striped hat, dressed in his youth. That look on his face, pure joy, 'come play with me' it said.

They had been so close. Best bros.

A sharp pain broke into his chest. A pain he had warded off for so many years now overwhelming him, breaking into his stomach, ripping through to his spine, down his back, up his throat, beating into his brain, pushing hot tears into the corners of his eyes. The world was spinning now, the heartbeat erratic. 'Remember when' drumming in his ears.

A friend. A loyal friend. Otto could almost remember when he knew what that was. A day at the beach, crisp and lively, sweet. Nothing but the world in a wave.

Remember when? Laughter echoing in his brain.

Oh yes. He remembered when.

He remembered when the sand was fresh between their toes. He remembered when the sun lavished their skin with soft embrace. _Fuck you, Otto_. That was it, wasn't it? In three words. His fault, it was all his fault. Everything, from start to finish. He relaxed his brow and buried his hands in the warm sand, now, leaning back to let the sun touch his face.

Remember when. He could almost see it now. Was it the last time they were ever really friends? That summer. That summer before it all changed. Before middle school, before all the new kids Otto had never thought to meet. Before the popularity of being the great athlete Otto Rocket overwhelmed him. He could smell the ocean, salt lingering in the air. The board beneath him. The lull roves of water caressing his bare legs. That itch for a wave. The shoobies all gone home for the summer and two more days before a new school, a new campus, a new world. He remembered looking out across the sea to his one lone companion on the dead water. That lopsided grin, the boy with the red and yellow cap. He had smiled, received one in return. His soul mate. No matter how far he ran, no matter how high he flew, no matter how deep he swam, that boy would always be behind him. No one else could keep up.

It had always been so comforting to know that no matter where he went, no matter what he did, he would never be alone.

They were somewhere they weren't supposed to be, he knew that. A part of the beach that they were restricted from but why and for what reason he couldn't remember now. A wave, ride able, was rushing up to them then. They eagerly took to it, rode down one after the other. Otto made it out of the pipe but it closed behind him and that boy was swallowed up like the world itself had crashed around him. It was the sand slipping through his fingers, the world sliding out of shape. The clear water, the broken leash, and nothing but laughter and self-assurance. Because that boy would surface, he knew, because that boy would not be far behind him.

Otto pulled his lids back, the sun boring into his eyes. How many minutes had passed, how many people, shoobies and locals alike. That smiling face had bobbed to the surface, but the shine in his eyes was washed away. Otto buried his face in his arms, now drawing himself up and wrapping them about his knees.

"I was the wave, I swallowed him up," he muttered beneath his breath, "How could I save him from himself if I couldn't even save him from me?"

Like a knife in the back of his neck, realization struck. He had always known where Maurice was, even if he hadn't known the exact location, he had always known that the other boy was not that far away. It was a comfort to know and he didn't know why until now. That feeling in the back of his mind, in the back of his throat, he'd fought so hard to bury it below. But it rose to the surface like that smiling face, never faltering. It was knowing that boy was there, for whatever reason, Otto had needed to know that he was _there_, nearby. That the boy, no matter how twisted and corrupt, no matter if that boy was even dead and gone now and all that was left was an empty shell of who he once was, Otto needed the knowledge that he was still just a stone throw away. That should Otto need to find him, for whatever reason, he was there.

But it ran deeper than that, Otto knew, as the pain scored across his heart. Because Otto could ran faster, farther, longer, higher and harder than anyone. Only that boy could ever keep up.

Otto didn't want to be alone.

Otto couldn't stand it anymore now. He needed to get out of there. Away. The world, the beach, everyone and everything, the sounds, the scene, it all came crashing into his senses and he needed to get out. He jumped to his feet suddenly and paid no mind to the heads that turned as he past.

He ran.

He just ran.

Up the beach, down the boardwalk, past the Shore Shack were Tito paused to follow the sprinting young man's form, past buildings and businesses, past Madtown and laughing children, onward into the horizon. He ran until his whole body ached, until his lungs were screaming for air, until his eyes were bleared from sweat, until his legs begged him to stop but he couldn't. He kept going, kept running. And he couldn't look back. He could never look back. Because he knew that there was no one behind him, no smiling young boy with a red and yellow striped cap.

So finally he collapsed within himself, choking on the tears streaming down his cheeks, mingling with the sweat. He folded into himself, hands clutching his knees for support, gasping for breath. Whether he was choking on his shortness of breath or sobbing in devastation he didn't know. And one thought grasped him, burrowed into his mind, and caught him off guard.

How could he protect Twister, now, if he didn't know where that boy was?

* * *

END A/N: Please be gentle. I'm not very good at writing from Otto's point of view and this was a huge struggle for me. Sorry I can't write more, like I said, late for work. Maybe, hopefully, pray for it, they'll be more. If I ever get my homework done.

As always, please excuse any grammatical or typing errors. _**REVIEW**_s are loved and cherished and always welcome.

AND, thanks for reading.


	12. Dead

A/N: Alright, so I started writing this as soon as I posted the last chapter. So I wrote this over the past couple of days. Must be a good sign, right? I can't guarantee my next update will be as soon. In fact, I can guarantee it won't. If anyone's wondering, my life's really...busy, right now. I'm kind of working two jobs and still going to school full-time. So what free-time I have...well...I don't have. I should be able to free up time whenever I get around to quitting one of my jobs. Until then, I apologize for the long delays that would follow, but hopefully not as long as the hiatus this poor story has been on.

As to the reviews, I can't tell you how surprised and just...excited I was at all the reviews from my loyal readers. I wasn't sure what to expect when I posted that last chapter, if anything at all. But to see so many familiar screen names...God, it filled me with so much warmth and happiness and all that mush to be reminded that there are those out there who love my story so much and get as much joy from my reading it as you guys do. If it weren't for all of you, you must know, I wouldn't be updating this story at all or even making any plans of finishing it or my other stories. I guess what I'm trying to say is that you all rock. Seriously. And I got nothing but a great deal of love for all ya'll. You guys make it all worth it.

And, moving right along, ENJOY!

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Chapter 12: Dead

_Then I got to the gate  
Pulled out a list that I'd been callin fate  
I'm sorry friend you can't come in  
You got a list here that doesn't end  
You're mad cause I smoke dope  
You teachin' any classes in how to cope  
I'll find a place to rest my head  
I'd rather be alone now that I'm dead_

-OPM, "Heaven Is a Half-Pipe"

I didn't dream.

But then, I wasn't even sure if I was sleeping. I just knew I wasn't awake. I wondered if I was dead. If I'm dead, though, should I be wondering if I'm dead? For that matter, should I be wondering anything at all?

I couldn't hear. The dark was silent. I guess, there was just nothing to hear.

And then the pain came. Or maybe I simply just realized it was there. My whole body felt like one great bruise. My bones felt brittle and broken. My head was swimming and I could taste blood in my mouth. My tongue was swollen.

And drugs. Oh god, my drugs. The pain was too much and all I could think of was my drugs. It was that dry soreness in the back of my throat begging me to quench my thirst. The heaviness in my stomach, the blood running cold through my veins. I remembered water suddenly. Underwater. I felt drenched, soaked to the bone. But there was no salt in my mouth. My lungs were drowning.

I was suddenly clenched with fear. Who was I? Oh god. Who the hell was I? It became so unbearable. I banged through my head for answers but drew a blank. Who was I? Where was I? Where did I come from? I couldn't remember anything and my heart was still and my head was screaming and turning and twisting and just screaming for something, anything to grasp at. Who the fuck am I? All I could remember were the drugs. All I could remember was that the drugs would make me better, would make me feel better, and that I needed those drugs more than anything else in the entire world and beyond it.

But I was panicking now. I didn't have drugs and I couldn't remember who I was.

I was a blank page. I was empty. Emptiness, maybe. Nothing. More than nothing…or less, however you approached the subject. Maybe I just didn't exist yet. Or I never existed. Maybe I was this non-existent person wondering alone in the dark.

And then slowly, I started realizing. Vivid, like snapshots behind the darkness. Some were bright and colorful, some were black and white. Some I couldn't picture but I knew what the picture was supposed to look like. Insects, faceless insects. Beneath the water's surface staring up at a cloudless blue sky. Blue. Just blue. Blue eyes. Soft and perfect and sad. So fucking sad. Green and red…no orange. Cherries. Did that make sense? No, they weren't cherries.

God. Who the fuck am I?

Laughing. Smiling, laughing faces.

And that pain. Pulsating now. Beating. Just banging and drumming. Oh god, please, just stop the laughing. So shrill in my ears.

And the faceless insects drilling into my olive colored flesh. Red, gashing red. Splattered across walls and trailing into a box. A cluttered white box. Closed in. I couldn't breath, I was so closed in.

And then yellow. Bright shining white yellow. The sun. It was the sun. So fucking bright. Oh God, make it stop, I prayed. Please, God, please, please, make it stop. Turn it off. Turn it all off and make it all just stop. Stop. Stop. STOP!

_Shit, Maurice…you're like the fucking sun to them._

My eyes flew open and my craving for drugs clung to me stronger than any hunger I'd ever known. I pulled myself up as best I could even though I couldn't even feel my body anymore. Everything was blurred, moving in slow motion. I couldn't concentrate. Everything rushed at me at once, overwhelmed me and nearly bowled me over as though fighting for my attention. The sounds or soundlessness. The colors, white and brown and red. The scents, wood and paper and whatever that sweet aroma was. And the feelings. Oh god, the feelings. The air so thin and cold. The floor, rough and strong. The softness of my clothes. The tautness of my skin hugging my flesh. The numb of my face. The burning in my eyes. The metal in my mouth. I could feel my tongue, nagging at me, it suddenly encompassed my thoughts. I was aware of my tongue.

I closed my eyes again, tears streaming down my face as I opened my eyes once more and tried to get my bearings straight. I was in a room. But where? Wood panels and thick white paper. That's all I understood. All I could make out of the room. A box. I'm in a box, I thought. I'm trapped in a box. There are four sides, one top, one bottom. A box.

There is no other desire in the world than drugs. Everything else is just…false. But drugs. Drugs were real. They were all that was real in this broken, jaded world of falsity. False hope. I laughed at that, my own little joke. I felt so weak. Where had I been? Where was I?

I dug into my pocket, my fingers itching and searching. It was in there. It had to be in there. My whole arm warmed at the notion and my cheeks flushed with blood rushing anticipation to my brain.

Nothing.

My heart dropped. It was gone. My last life support. My last hope. I laughed a bit at that even though it wasn't funny and nothing was ever going to be funny again. My happiness was gone. I had nothing left. I was completely and utterly at a loss. I had to get out. Out of that box and find my life. The one sustenance that had remained and was now missing like everything else I needed to go on living.

I stumbled my way forward, felt my way around until I came to the wall with paper panels. I struggled to make it swing out before finding a way to slide it open. And then the outside greeted me.

Trees. So many trees. More than I had ever seen in my life. It was a hopeless ocean of trees. And dirt, all that goddamned dirt. My heart caught in my chest and I flittingly made my way from the box onto a little porch. I touched my hand to the railing and made shaky steps forward along the walkway finding that there was more to the box. That it was quite possibly an entire house. And the trees. Holy shit, they never came to an end.

I stopped. My hand had reached a stopping point. I looked down. My finger rested against a reddish brown ceramic rectangle. Another box. Another tree. A very little tree.

"What the fuck?" I think I mouthed.

"You're awake," a voice spoke, with all the tone of someone simply stating a fact. I kept staring at the small tree as though it had been the one to speak. I was almost convinced it was.

There was the repetitive sound of a bird "whooping" in the background. I couldn't peel my eyes from the tree. There was a shuffling near by and suddenly the warmth of someone standing at my back. I froze. Someone was melting the flesh from my face and I fought the urge to scream.

"It is called a bonsai tree," the voice continued. So strange and quaint I could barely understand it. I thought for a moment that the words were a completely different language.

"Banzai…?" I repeated dumbly, still staring down the tree, attempting to grasp what was being said.

"Hai. Bon_sai_," was the response.

I gripped the railing and took note of the peeling paint. It was a funny blue color, slightly grayish, slightly green. I wondered if it was supposed to be green. Maybe it was green, I thought, and I was wrong. There was a nail, holding the railing together. All I could see was the smooth top, so inorganic and alien against the wood. I thought about what would happen if all the nails disappeared. It would all collapse, right? Fall within itself. Or would it still remain standing as it had for so many years. Did the wood learn to be what it was forced to be? Could it recall that man had formed it as such and after years of being such that the railing was now melded how man had built it and no support was needed any longer? I could see the grain of the wood, cut deep. The paint sunk into its crevices.

I turned to face him. He was shorter than me by almost a head. His face was deeply carved without emotion. His eyes were burning intensity. They saw everything, I recognized. They were buried deep into his head and they remained locked on me. I shivered. I wished he would look away. His white hair reminded me of snow. Soft, fresh powder at the top of the mountains. He wore a white shirt, buttoned up, the collar neatly folded down and loose fitting black pants. He was too small, I thought. He didn't fit right in my mind.

"You're Noreid," I stated.

"No. I am Sensei," he patiently told me.

"Sensei," I tested the name in my mouth, let it roll along my tongue. There was something about it that disgusted me. I made a face, scowling, "Where's my fucking sharpie?" He didn't so much as flinch at the harshness of my voice.

"Gone."

"What do you mean _gone_?" I demanded. He remained impassive.

"What do you need it for?" he asked calmly, unhesitant. I stammered, my mouth moving though no sound came out. My face contorted into rage and my words quavered with anger.

"To _write_ with. What do you think a fucking sharpie is for?"

"I see," the man said, though it didn't sound as though he did or perhaps, he already did in the first place, "It's alright. I have pencils. You need to write? I will get you a pencil." He started towards the house and I stared blankly after him. I was going to throw up. I was trembling. The emotions were so excruciating I could barely stand it anymore. My hands clenched into fists.

"I don't want a pencil," I seethed through gritted teeth. He paused at the front entrance, turned to me and quirked his head.

"Then what?"

"I want my fucking sharpie," I shouted, overcome with my frustration and desperation. He pursed his lips together and folded his hands behind his back, staring patiently up at me, trying to read me.

"No," he said unwaveringly. I sprung forward then, violence and anger boiling over, wrapping my fists in his shirt and dragging him towards me roughly. He didn't so much as bat an eyelash, his eyes remaining as indomitable as ever.

"Give me my sharpie," I hissed. He took hold of my hands so quietly and gently, one finger in the palm of my hand, his thumb on the top in the middle, and applied a bit of pressure. My fingers released and my arms folded to his whim. He pushed me away, I stumbled backwards a bit shocked, and his eyes darkened over. He reminded me of fear and my throat was squeezed ever so slightly with it.

"It is gone. You will not ask for it of me _ever _again. Understood?"

I was silent, marinating in my anger. My expression was twisted with rage and I could feel the way my muscles in my face were shaped. My whole body was tensed over and my hands still clenched in fists. I was measuring him up in my eyes. Trying to decipher how his body would move if I attacked, trying to discern his strength, hidden as it obviously was. His eyes remained on my face. He was solid and unmoving. His eyes were all that revealed what his emotions might be. They were dark and ready. He was challenging me, I realized. He was waiting and challenging me.

"Is that _understood_?" he repeated, his words more firm now and a hint of threat behind them.

I felt a wave of weakness then. My body relaxed, my hands unclenched, my eyes softened with harrowing realization. I could already feel the warm tears streaming down my cheeks. They were all I felt at that moment. I had nothing left. I really was dead. I don't recall nodding. I don't recall making the necessary head movement to nod. I don't even recall making the conscious decision to nod. But I know I did. I lowered my eyes to stare at my bare feet. I briefly wondered where my shoes and socks were. I was shaking now, uncontrollably. My veins were on fire. I could feel every nerve ending, it was radiating pain. I couldn't even comprehend what I was seeing, everything was blinding light and splotchy colors. I leaned heavily back against the railing and my eyes drooped. Sensei laid a placid hand on my arm.

"You will eat now," he informed me quietly and led me into the main house.

He took me to the small table, I remembered seeing it before but I couldn't remember what had happened then. He let me slump to the floor near it, burying my head in my elbows, as he disappeared into the back. He returned shortly with a bowl, steaming, and set it before me. I frowned at it. It was a broth, pale and clear. There were white cubes that looked like cheese floating inside, and thin green leaves like squares.

"Miso soup," he explained and lay a strangely shaped wedge of a spoon next to the bowl, "Eat," he commanded. My stomach turned and I shook my head.

"I can't," I whimpered, tears still strolling down my cheeks and I knew I couldn't. The food was poison, I thought, only the drugs were pure and clean. Only the drugs would help me, only the drugs would sustain me, "I need…I need…"

I couldn't bring myself to say it. Though the word lay on my lips. I was afraid but I wasn't sure of what. I wrapped my arms around my body, I was so cold, and rocked myself back and forth. My chin fell to my collarbone and I was sobbing now. I heard Sensei shuffle away and then moments later return. I heard the small noise of something else being silently placed on the table. And then I heard his movements as he sat down. I could feel his presence permeating my skin from across the table. He said nothing as I sobbed, made no movement. Finally my tears slowed and my sob became nothing more than a hiccup deep in my chest. I raised my eyes slightly to look at the soup in front of me again and my stomach lurched with disgust. I wouldn't be able to eat it even if I wanted to, my stomach didn't want it. There was a cup next to the soup now. The liquid inside was clear and I assumed it was water. My body wanted that even less.

"Much time has passed since you last ate," Sensei finally spoke again and I raised my eyes slightly more to peer at him. He was watching me ever so stolidly, knelt in front of the table, hands folded in his lap, "You taught your body not to want food. Not to want water. Only to want drugs. But that you cannot have now. So you must re-teach your body. Eat."

I gaped at him. I felt stupid but I couldn't grasp what he was telling me. His words were so foreign. I recognized them but they didn't make sense strung together. I wondered if he was using them incorrectly but I realized that was wrong. I was hearing them incorrectly.

"Eat," he repeated softly, then made the motion with his hand. I wanted to laugh but I choked on another sob instead. My hand was trembling uncontrollably now but I took hold of the funny spoon and, quaking, scooped up some of the soup. For a long while I stared at the white cubes and slimy green leaves floating in the broth. And then I slid it into my mouth.

Instantly I wanted to spit it out. My body heaved with the sudden urge to vomit and I gagged on the liquid. I could feel his eyes on me and I felt a strange need to prove to him…something. I didn't know what I wanted to prove. But I forced the liquid, the green, the cubes, down my throat. I felt as though I were choking on it, I coughed and hacked and gagged and I wanted to retch. It felt dry going down and I had to force it to my stomach where it sat heavily like a new weight on my chest. I closed my eyes in attempt to gather myself and more tears started to cascade down my cheeks.

"I can't," I told him again, I hated how childish I sounded, "It hurts. Why are you making me do this?"

"Drink," was all he said. His voice was soft, reverent. But to me it sounded cruel and forceful. He was torturing me and I wondered how my parents could abandon me here with this man. Did they not know what a sadist he was? Or was that their intention all along? To leave me with him so that he could kill me slowly.

I couldn't hold my hand still anymore. I reached for the glass and spilled a good deal on the table and myself before it reached my lips, now grasping it with both my severely quivering hands. Cold, like ice. It slithered into my mouth and through my throat like pinpricks scratching their way down. I put the cup on the table once more, shuddering. The tears continued to fall and I felt weaker, ready to collapse, ready to drown on my own vomit.

"No more," I pleaded quietly, my voice soft and forlorn.

"Eat," he commanded again. He sat there now, arms crossed, staring sternly across the table at me.

I took a few deep steadying breaths and raised the spoon once again. I scooped another bit of soup down my throat and another, the pain growing with each mouthful. I was out of tears, out of breath, wretched and worn when Sensei finally told me I could stop. I had only finished half the bowl but my water was empty. I dropped the spoon to the table and the soup rested in the bottom of my stomach like a rock.

Sensei stood and gathered the bowl and cup. He left the room and I thought of running then. But I couldn't move. My body wouldn't move. I wasn't even shaking anymore. I sat slumped as though dead. I wished I were. The pain was horrible, the sickness in the back of throat demanding. I could hear water running. It exploded in my ears and my heart was racing erratically in my chest. I couldn't recall what the soup had tasted like or even if it had a taste at all. It was just hot.

Sensei returned to the table, kneeling on the floor in front of me once more. His eyes were studying me now. His mouth was small, stretched into a straight line between his cheeks. There was an unwaveringness about him. He could not be budged in any way. He was expressionless, but etched deep in his eyes was understanding. Comprehension that I couldn't quite hold onto. What did he know about me, I wondered. Nothing? Everything? I couldn't escape him. With every move I made or didn't make, with every word I said or didn't say, he was adding them up and interpreting their meanings. He was reading into my soul, taking me apart piece by piece.

I felt crushed in my chest. I couldn't breath, my lungs were collapsed. All I could see was darkness and devastation. I was doomed. There was no hope for me. All that was left was darkness. I would die out here alone. Perhaps, I thought, perhaps that was for the best. It would all end. Everything would just end. It would cease being. My lips were chapped and cracked, probably from lack of water, and I could taste the blood on them. My skin felt as though I were wearing it, not as though it were a part of me. All of my limbs were weighing me down. And there were insects, racing under my flesh, racing in my veins, biting at me, digging into me. Eating at what was left of my insides.

"How did I get here?" I croaked, and I wasn't quite sure what I meant. How did I get to the place I was at, to be the person that I was now? The drugs, the fighting, the without a care? The life I'd led up to that point? Or how did I end up in that room, in that house, alone with the executioner who had two names?

But Sensei knew what I meant, even if I didn't.

"I found you in the woods. I brought you back here. You slept for two days."

I nodded but none of it was making any sense to me. The only thing that made any sense was that there were no drugs here. I was shaking again, my knee bouncing, my hands trembling, my eyes darting around the room trying to find something to focus on. It hurt so goddamned much. Someone was dragging a razor down the inside of my chest. And all the while Sensei watched me silently. I was scratching at my arm now, I couldn't help it. It stung, the flesh was already torn, I wondered if human flesh was chewy or if it tasted like chicken and felt the soup making its way back up.

"The next few days will be very hard for you," Sensei continued, his ever intense eyes boring into me, "The poisons will be leaving your body. You have slept through much but it is far from done. You are strong, you will persevere. But it will be very hard."

"And then I go home?" I asked, my voice now harsh and soft, my throat sore from eating the soup and bawling like a child. I wasn't proud of myself for my behavior but I didn't really have enough interest in anything besides getting drugs to be ashamed.

"No," he said, but offered no explanation, "You will rest now."

I didn't object. I followed him dejectedly through the house, down a hallway that apparently connected to the room I'd been in originally. I could see now that there was a mat rolled on the floor that I had been sleeping on, a blanket folded at the foot and a flat pad for a pillow. There was a bureau on one side of the room where my bag, I assumed, of my things was thrown. I took it all in with disinterest, still scratching at my arm. It was damp now, I realized, probably with my blood and the stinging was worse. I was ready to collapse. He pointed to a doorway halfway down the hall we'd come and he told me it was the bathroom, commanding me in his easy tone to clean myself up. So I stumbled into the small white room. There was a short toilet, a sink, and a small open shower, a single yellow bulb in the middle of the ceiling illuminating the tiny room. I fell to my knees on the floor, lifted the lid of the toilet and promptly threw up. All the water, the soup I'd been forced to eat, and gastric juices ended up floating in the toilet water. I kept convulsing until I was simply dry heaving on the ground.

Finally, I stopped, slumped over the toilet. The fumes of my retch made no difference to me. My fingers were coated in my own blood and my eyes were wide as I stared blankly at nothing. How many days had it been since my last fix? I tried to recall but everything was a blur. I remembered waves pulling me under, I remembered laughing children, I remembered her soft lips against my own and that feeling of absolution decimated by the overcompensation of reality.

Strong hands gripped my shoulders and lifted me up from the tiled floor. I was nothing but useless as I was dragged back to what I realized was to be my room from now on. I fell or was dropped, I didn't know which, haphazardly on my bed-mat. I rolled to my back, coughing and gagging on the air around me. I was drenched in sweat and it was running into my eyes now, further blurring my vision. I was on fire.

Time passed slowly and excruciatingly from that moment. I was so tired and strung out but I couldn't sleep no matter how I tried. It was as though my body were on overtime. I had slept for so many days, so weary, that I thought I could sleep forever but I was wired now. My brain swirled, thoughts rushed into my head without order or relevance, and I was overwhelmed by it all and couldn't make any sense of what they were, if anything. I was aware of so little except his presence, constant and vigilant. He came and went but for the most part sat beside me in his quiet demeanor. I cried, I screamed, I begged and pleaded. I couldn't move sometimes, all I could do was watch the world flurry overhead. The light burning into my eyes. Sometimes I couldn't stop myself from moving. I would pace the room, muttering under my breath, sliding to the floor, rocking back and forth. And everything smeared together. He would dab my forehead with a wet rag, I could feel the coolness of the water mingling with the firmness of his calloused hands. He'd pour water down my throat or warm liquids. Broth, I assume. I usually threw it all up. Always begging him to stop this. He'd bandaged my arms, wrapped my hands so I couldn't scratch anymore. When things got really bad he would stuff a cotton cloth in my mouth so I wouldn't chew through my tongue and my cries were muffled.

I recall one moment, not being sure how much time had passed, hours or days, weeks or months. I writhed on the floor. My brain screaming, my ears ringing. I felt as though I were boiling inside. And those insects. Oh God, those faceless insects, feasting on me. Everything was bathed in red, my blood, my life spilled on the floor. How sad, I thought, there I am. Everything I was, just flesh and blood and fluid and little bits and pieces of bones and marrow and organs. Who would put me back together again? Surely not all the kings horses and all the kings men.

"I need them," I screamed, "Just give me something! Oh god…oh god, please…just make this stop…I'll do anything…just one upper, just one! I need it…I do…I can't live…I need it…"

He came to kneel at the foot of my bed-mat. Ever silent and I screamed at him to say something.

"Fucking bastard," I yelled at him, "You fucking, cock-sucking, mother fucker, fucking bastard!"

Every curse word I knew I flung at him but he said nothing and remained motionless until I collapsed back to the floor, sobbing.

"I want it to end," I whispered in defeat, my head swimming with hallucinations, the insects still eating at me, and a black hulking figure lingering in the corner with a twisted smile, dreadlocks in its eyes. I turned to him with eyes glazed over and he sat, legs folded beneath him, straight back, impassive like a statue, gray and stone cold, "Please…I didn't ask to be saved."

I rolled up suddenly, unaware of the strength still left in me and sunk my teeth into my inner wrist, tasting the bitter stale cotton of my bandages and then the metallic of blood. He sprang into action, deft graceful movements. A strong arm strung across my chest and an opposite and just as iron gripped hand grasped my head, pulling me down. I resisted. I fought. I kicked. I let out anguished animalistic screams. But he didn't relent, his grip on me didn't relax. I made a few last futile and half-hearted jerks before giving in, my chest ripped with convulsions. I surrendered. The pain washed over me so that I knew nothing else but that white hot searing malaise.

I cried for my mother. I cried for her gentle touch, for her soothing words. I cried for her to hold me, to tell me everything would be alright. I remembered being a child and her wrapping her arms around me when I was sick and caring for me in that way only a mother could.

"Mama," I whimpered in the arms of that strange, elderly man. He made no comment.

And then finally, after so many hours or days, time unmeasured, of tormenting wake without end, I slipped into unconscious.

I knew not how long had passed when I opened my eyes again. I was alone and my entire body ached, worn from the long hard struggle. I could see light streaming through the paper panels and hear birds outside singing of morning.

And for the first time in a long time, the world was clear.

* * *

END A/N: Ah, Twister's detox out of the way, now his rehabilitation can begin! I didn't go into as much detail as I originally planned with that whole chapter for my own reasons. The title for this chapter was inspired by a line at the end of the chapter where Twister and his friends are all singing the OPM song...I believe chapter four, for anyone interested. And for those of you who think Twist's little detox scene was easy, believe me when I say, it's not over.

And for me, this story is going to get way harder to write. Not just because I lack the time. I think I've stated before that this one felt like I was telling two stories at once. Well, now I really will be, pretty much. There's going to be what's happening with Twister, and then there's going to be what's happening with everyone in Ocean Shores. I'm gonna be so wiped when this is finished, but I can't wait. But you know what really pisses me off. I make all these notes on the stories I'm writing, it's a good habit to get into if you're serious about writing, and well, I had a piece of paper with all the bands and songs written down that I was going to use as intros to chapters...but after the long hiatus, I lost it. I'm so pissed at myself. Oh well, I guess that's my punishment.

Quick note: Miso soup is basically a japanese "broth" made using miso paste and other ingredients, generally tofu and seaweed (like the miso Nori gave to Twister). Nori's house also has some very traditional Japanese architecture, like the walls made of rice paper. I wanted his home to be like a piece of Japan in America. Also, my mispelling of "Nori" early in the chapter was intentional, for those who may not have realized. Nori tells Twister to call him "sensei", which Twister thinks is his actual name at this point, but for those who don't know, "sensei" really just means teacher. As well, Nori tells Twister the little tree is a bonsai tree, to which Twister replies "banzai". because it's commonly mispronounced that way when in fact there is a distinct difference in the intonations and they are two completely different words.. Bonsai is pronounced "bone-sigh" and banzai is pronounced "bon (as in bon-bon)- z - eye). Banzai is a japanese shout, like "jeronomo!", but Nori is just to passive to correct him.

I think that's about it.

Um...so, please excuse any grammatical and typing errors. Please **_REVIEW_**,

And thanks for reading. Gotta go now, Heroes is on. Peace out.


	13. Do Without

A/N: I'm baaaaaaaaaccccccccccckkkkkkkkkk!!!!!!!!! So some of you were beginning to think that I would never update this story ever again despite my promise, not only to my reader's but myself, that I would finish this story even if it killed me. Oh ye of little faith.

And stop panicking, the world's not ending.

Oh. And HOLY SHIT! 22 reviews for last chapter. I'm thinking that's a personal record. I mean, hell, this story has already broken a hundred reviews. I'm so proud. And grateful. Immensely grateful. I love everybody! And I really, really, really missed you all! But I'm gonna stop babbling 'cause I know what you're all here for.

Almost forgot, I really want to thank devin for the review. It was immensely flattering to be told my story was pretty close to the real experience. I've lost a lot of friends to drugs but have never really done them myself so I don't have a wide basis of comparison. So it really made me happy to know that someone who'd been through such an experience found it true to life. Thank you and I really hope you continue to read!

The good stuff...ENJOY!

* * *

Chapter 13: Do Without

_All along the undertow_

_Is strengthening its hold_

_I never thought it would come to this_

_Now I can never go home_

-Weezer, "Surf Wax America"

The digital clock at Reggie's bedside read five o'three. She stared at it for a painstakingly long time before realizing that someone or something was pounding on her door which could be the only explanation for why she was awake so early. With great determination, the young woman swung her legs out of her blankets and planted her feet firmly on the carpeted ground below. Then, with as much forced strength as her first action took, she managed to tug herself into a sitting position. Grog shivered over her slender form and every sleep deprived muscle in her body opted to give out on her that very moment. More bashing on her door, however, brought the young woman fully to her feet. She swayed slightly as she marched woozily to the door and swung it heavily open.

To say Reggie was surprised to find Otto standing in the hallway would have to be an understatement. She seemed to recall him not being a morning person but his bright-eyed and busy-tailed presence was suggesting her memories were false. What struck her as all the more surprising had to be the shorts her little brother was decked out in. Swim trunks. What could he possible be wearing those for at this hour in the morning?

As if to answer that awe-inspiring question, Otto announced, "Let's go surfing."

While she would definitely attribute it mostly to fatigue, Reggie's mouth drooped open in the most archaic and unattractive of manners. Clutching the door for support as her knees threatened to buckle, Reggie searched her mind for the most appropriate and tasteful way to tell her brother to go to hell.

"Go to hell."

The door swung closed and a slightly miffed Otto slowly untangled his angered and hurt feelings. Again, he knocked. And he knocked. And he knocked.

Once again, the door opened. For a brief passing moment, Otto felt regretful. He even almost felt sorry for his sister. It was obvious how tired she was from the deep sunken in of her eyes and their very pronounced bags, the red veins crawling inwards toward the blue. Her hair was a fizzled mess, there was even a little bit of dried drool in the left corner of her mouth. She was hunched over the doorknob in a manner that her well-trained body was not accustomed to and her pajamas hung off her gangly frame like a window drape.

But Otto wasn't in the mood to be weighed down by such foolhardy emotions as remorse and guilt. He was in the mood to surf and he'd be damned if anything, even his sister's own desire to rest, got in the way of that.

"_What _do you _want_?" Reggie demanded now, her voice low and raspy.

"I thought that was obvious when I said 'lets go surfing'," Otto supplied. Reggie drew her breath in as a sharp hiss. She readjusted her weight on her other foot, leaned her shoulder into the door, and narrowed her eyes on him with a deep unsettling glare.

"It's five o'clock in the _fucking _morning," Reggie growled and Otto flinched slightly, "And school starts in two and a half hours. What in the hell would possess you to think I would want to go surfing? If you want to go surfing so goddamned much, go by yourself!"

Otto lowered his eyes slightly. His mind reeling. He wasn't entirely sure why he'd wanted Reggie to go surfing with him that morning. Or even why he'd wanted to get up early to go surfing. He usually stayed in bed as long as he could, desperately soaking up every minute he had to drift in dream land. But that day he'd woken up with a great deal of energy rushing through him and this desire to do something, anything, that didn't involve lying around in bed staring at the ceiling. But for some strange reason, when he'd pulled himself up, his room had felt dark and looming.

The world outside was a gray dull. Everything was still covered in the cold and musk of late night. And for some even stranger reason, Otto had been clenched with the most disquieting of feelings at the idea of going out into that kind of atmosphere. This sick, nauseating, wrenching emotion churning in his gut and spinning behind his eyes. He would even go so far as to name the feeling as fear. He was scared to go out there. The idea was so ridiculous, so ludicrous, so…humiliating. The great Rocket boy was most definitely not afraid of the dark. But then, what else could it be.

And then, for another reason as equally strange as the others, Otto had found himself placating the apparent fear with the notion that Reggie would go out with him. And his big sister, of course, would protect him from all the evils of the outside world.

So there he stood in her doorway pleading her to go surfing with him like a petulant child. He took in a deep, shaky breath, and sorted out his words.

"I wanted to go with _you_ is all," he mumbled, not certain of where he was going with that statement, but the sentiment seemed dead on, "We haven't really done much together lately and…well…I just thought…you haven't really been yourself the past few days and you used to love getting up early to surf so…yeah…"

Reggie lowered her head, letting her hair fall about her eyes. It had been exactly five days since Sam had told her Maurice was going away. To where, she had no clue. But a couple days ago, Raul had returned from wherever 'where' was, but his son was not with him. It bothered her. She wished it wouldn't, but it did. And she knew that Otto was right. She really hadn't been herself the past few days. She knew better than to believe that Otto being at her door was out of a genuine desire he had to cheer her up. It wasn't that she doubted her little brother would want to make her happy if he noticed she was drastically out of sorts, he just wouldn't wake up so fucking early to do it. No, he was definitely at the door for his own reasons, but he didn't seem willing to give those reasons up. She wondered if maybe Maurice's disappearance was affecting him as well but thought better of it.

Otto didn't care anymore what happened to Maurice. Reggie knew that better than anyone. As she thought about it, Otto hadn't really been himself the past few days either. And while she had been too raveled in her own emotions to notice beforehand, something was definitely bothering the youngest Rocket. Reggie didn't know why exactly Otto felt the need to drag her surfing but it was obvious it would please him. With a heavy sigh, the elder sibling relented.

"Fine. Let me get dressed."

Again Reggie closed the door but this time it was not immediately followed with an onset of pounding fists. She unrolled her bikini from the top drawer of her bureau and found her board shorts tucked behind her desk. She changed quickly and was still pulling a plain white baby-tee over her head when she opened the door again. Like a puppy, Otto was sitting next to the doorframe in the hallway, waiting patiently. He was sitting quietly, lost in thought. There was something wrong, Reggie recognized, but she wasn't sure what. She decided not to ask. He wouldn't have answered anyways.

"I'm gonna get a change of clothes real quick and I'll meet you downstairs," Reggie told him and Otto raised his eyes to meet hers momentarily. He smiled, it seemed half-hearted, and nodded, jumping to his feet, walking down the hall. Reggie sighed.

Outside of the Rocket household, Otto seemed like the happiest, most stable guy on the face of the planet. He was exuberant in everything he did. He laughed loudly, grinned widely, and by all outward appearances was still the same obnoxious little brother he'd always been. It was why so many people liked him. They liked laughing with him, joking with him. It was as though nothing got to him and if someone tried bothering him, well, he considered himself to be tough shit and talked as though he could beat the hell out of anyone who would cross that line. Of course, aside from the spat at Madtown nearly a week ago, Otto never got in fights and he generally bragged that it was because no one had the guts to challenge him. It was just something else for everyone to admire about him. Reggie almost wished she were one of those people at school who only saw that self-assured side of the infamous Rocket boy.

At home, there was a darker, more sinister side. It was a secret only the eldest Rocket offspring bore. Reggie often found herself afraid of the Otto behind closed doors. Not so much for herself but for him. He was quiet, for the most part, despondent at best. Easily irritated, quick to snap. His mood swings were erratic and unpredictable. He would lash out at inanimate objects, yell at no one in particular, become deathly quiet, or sadistically cheerful. She was never sure what to expect from him and tried not to be surprised. She placated herself with the thought that his sudden desire to surf at five in the morning was attributed to his strange moods but something told her there was more working beneath those tangled dreadlocks.

Reggie tossed a pair of jeans and a vintage t-shirt into her backpack along with her notebooks and other school supplies. She'd have to wear her bikini the rest of the day but she really didn't mind. It wouldn't be the first time in her life that she'd done such a thing, though it had been awhile since she'd last worn her swimsuit to school after an early morning surf session. As she shuffled through her belongings for anything else she might need at school, Reggie found a bundle of clothing on the floor beside her bed. She scrunched her brow, attempting to remember what it was and why it was there as Reggie wasn't the type to leave such things lying aimlessly about. But as it unfurled in her hand, realization struck. Her heart caught in her throat upon seeing the wrinkled tank top and creased shorts. They were the clothes she'd been wearing four nights ago. The clothes she'd been wearing in that dark alley behind the Shore Shack. The clothes she'd been wearing when Twister or Maurice, as she often had to correct herself, had kissed her.

Reggie straightened, color flooding her cheeks and warming her eyes. Her heart was pounding now and her vision blurred slightly. She'd forgotten, for the most part, what had taken place as best she could. Tried to black it out of her memory. Tried to force it from her thoughts. But her attempts were a joke. She lay awake at night tossing and turning, knowing the instant she closed her eyes she would be back there at the Shore Shack in the dead of night, hovering over that boy with the rusted copper eyes.

She hadn't been expecting to find anyone back in that alley that night. She helped out a lot at the Shore Shack those days. The restaurant was growing in popularity with tourists and such, people came in from out of town with the sole purpose of eating a Shack burger. Comparatively, Rocket Boards was booming in business as well and because of that fact the Rocket father, Raymundo, usually worked at the board shop leaving the fry cook Tito and one of his kids to handle the store. Otto was generally too busy with his friends, playing some extreme sport or another to bother with the family businesses, which left Reggie.

Reggie. Always the responsible one. It wasn't as though she had other things to do, right? Wasn't like she had her own flock of friends to hang out with and her own sports to play. She knew that her father didn't mean to be bias about his children but subconsciously he tended to ask Reggie more often for help around the restaurant and board shop than his son. It was aggravating but she dealt.

Reflecting back, Reggie had been pretty pissed that night. She had planned a mall outing with Sam, Sherry, and Trish only to be suckered into working the Shore Shack. She convinced her friends to leave her behind and, reluctant as they all were, they went ahead. Which only left her lonely as well and on top of everything else her tips were shitty. Understandably, she'd spent the day peevish and was rather agitated when her father asked her to take the trash out when they were closing down the Shack. Maybe that was why she hadn't noticed him at first. She'd seen him but it hadn't really struck her that he was there.

A part of her, somewhere flitting in the back of her mind, had somehow acknowledged him merely as Twister and disregarded him altogether. Because it was usual for Twister to be hanging around the Shore Shack, right? But in a sudden flash, as the trash slammed to the bottom of the can, Twister was gone and the fact that Maurice did not usually hang out by the Shore Shack smacked her in the face. She turned to him and he seemed just as surprised of his presence there as her because he started to leave. Only to trip and stumble backwards. Whoever he was at the moment, in that space of time, fled her mind and she was beside him before she knew what she was doing, asking of his well being.

Reggie shuddered at the remembrance of his eyes on her form. The way her heart had quickened, the blood racing through her veins. She had been so close to him she could see every detail of his face, every fleck of gold in those pale green eyes. The pain of the landing contorted his features and she had noticed the way his jaw was held firm and the tendon in his slender neck was jutting out. The light beginnings of an Adam's apple caused embarrassment to blur her eyes. She didn't know that young man, not anymore. Being so near that boy caused her body to react in ways she would be ashamed to admit and everything about him invaded her senses. His scent, his warmth, it was causing her head to swim. Lightheaded. She had felt as though she to get away before she could name the emotion that was running a course through her body.

When he'd grabbed hold of her behind the neck and pulled her downward, panic had overcome her. She had remembered, in that instant, how violent Maurice could be. How days before he'd sunk his fists over and over into her little brother, dropping the Rocket boy, who claimed to be tough shit, to the ground. She had recalled the feel of his hand against her shoulder, roughly shoving her with unnecessary force. The malice in those soft rusted copper eyes. And she had wondered what he would do to her with his hand clutching the nape of her neck when suddenly his lips had been crushed against hers.

When that had happened, she no longer wondered anything at all because suddenly she knew. She knew that while she tasted alcohol and smoke in his saliva that she also tasted him, sweet and bitter all at once. And she knew that while the taste was foreign, almost metallic in her mouth, it alighted the blood coursing through her veins and she loved it. She knew that never again would she taste anything so tantalizing. Until he parted her lips, lax against his own, and his tongue entered her mouth and then all of him was in her and her mind was on fire burning its way down her cheeks, her spine, her bosom, her legs, all the way to her feet. Every muscle in her body had chosen that very moment to give out on her and she knew that he was strong enough to hold her steady. She knew that cradled against his slim frame, she was safe. She knew that everything that had happened up until that moment had been a dream, a lie, an illusion, and that the only thing that was real was that moment in time. And she knew that no one else would ever kiss her like that.

When he had eventually pulled away, she had felt cold. Never had loneliness pervaded her senses as it did when she met his eyes, his rough, calloused hands trembling against the bare flesh of her shoulders. Sadness. So very sad. And desperation, pounding between them. Their hearts beating as one. Their breath was rushed and heavy, their chests rose and fell. The world was spinning out of control and Reggie had wondered what she was supposed to do then because she had never before felt so lost. She had wanted to stay where she was in the hush of the dark alley, pressed against the solid form below her, for the world to pause, forever in the quiet of that moment. Never had she desired anything so greatly, the feeling was so strong that it burst inside her almost painfully. It ached. That was where she wanted to be, no where else. She had wanted nothing else.

_I love you, Reg._

Twin tears, hot and acidic, streamed down Reggie's cheeks. She quickly wiped them away, shoving the bundled clothes from her body and standing up straight and tall. She deftly pushed loose baby strands from her eyes with shaking hands, fighting down the sob in her throat. This was foolish. It was two minutes of one night. Two meaningless minutes of a night that was quickly fading from her memory. It meant nothing.

Those words had stung her like a whip biting through her flesh. She felt betrayed by them. Betrayed by him. This person, Maurice. How could he do that? How could he tarnish that moment? How could he change everything with just three words?

Who was he?

Who the _hell _did he think he was?

What right did he have to say such things to her? Did he even know her? She had felt so disgusted. So reviled. She had pulled away entirely. Turned from him. Him and his musty scent of smoke and alcohol and mint gum and that underlying strange smell of boy. With his oversized, dark colored clothes. Angled hands and sharp chin. Thick dark scabs over scars that couldn't heal. Soft mouth bruised red that spoke words she would never hear and jokes she'd never laugh at. This stranger whose name she recalled from a far away time.

For a moment. A fleeting moment, she had thought of Rebecca Philips. Slutty little Rebecca Philips. White trash whore. The skater chic.

_She doesn't ride skate boards, she rides skaters_.

What drugged up skater boy hadn't fucked her yet? With her greasy jagged dirty blonde hair and her ash tray clothes. Those light colored eyes thickly outlined kohl. The way she bobbed to music that wasn't there, moved in slow motion as if her mind couldn't keep up. Pale white flesh and cheeks splotched pink and red. Short skirts to reveal skinny paste legs with vines of blue crawling up and down like canals through the city of Venice. She was everything that Reggie was not and never would be.

_Then you know, that she's dating Twister._

Twister. With his red and yellow striped cap. Those favorite high-top sneakers and his camcorder always glued to his hand. Freckles along his cheeks, dabbled along his shoulder, dusted on his spine. With his wide, boyish grin that made hearts pound a thousand times in the span of one second and reminded people that there was purity and innocence in the world. Whose goofy laugh made soft smiles grace Reggie's features even in the darkest of moments. Sweet, sappy Twister corrupted by the image of the skater chic, with her chipped nail-polished finger nails raking across his skin.

How many times had that kiss been given to Rebecca Philips? How many times had the renowned skater chic been braced against his solid form and felt that warmth and safety? What part of his scent was her? Was it the lingering smell of her perfume in his sweater that had seemed sweet to Reggie's senses? It made her want to vomit. This Maurice didn't belong to her. He meant nothing to her. She wasn't a part of his life, she couldn't even peek in at it like a parent would. They weren't friends, they weren't acquaintances. They were nobodies to nobody. _That _was real.

Reggie slung her backpack over her shoulder and left her room in long strides. She found Otto in the kitchen, a spoon dangling lazily in a bowl of soggy cereal. He wasn't even partially interested in eating and he briefly glanced Reggie as she entered. A glimmer of hope flitted her chest as she wondered if maybe his mood had swung and he'd decided he didn't want to surf anymore. After all, bed was calling.

"What took you so long? We could already be surfing now," Otto sneered and Reggie frowned. So much for that hope.

"So sorry, little bro," Reggie replied, her tone dripping sarcasm, "Maybe I wouldn't be so sluggish if I were well rested."

For a moment more, they stood like that, glares battling one another. It felt like old time, gnawing on each others nerves. But Reggie knew that there was a harshness behind their words that was never there when they were younger.

Reggie was first to turn away, snatching the still open box of Corn Puffs on the table, diving her hand in and grabbing out a fistful of the sugar coated cereal. She let them roll into her mouth as she made her way to the cupboard to retrieve a glass. She filled it with juice and, finishing off the Corn Puffs in her hand, took a long gulp. Otto watched her with hawk like eyes and Reggie felt a blush creep across her cheeks. Her heart pounded fear in her chest as she wondered for a slight second if somehow in an instant the events of five nights ago had revealed themselves to her dreadlocked brother and he suddenly knew every emotion roiling through Reggie's mind.

What would he do, how would he react if he found out that she had let Maurice Rodriguez touch her?

Hold her?

Kiss her?

And that she had liked it?

Flustered, Reggie turned away from her brother, rinsing her cup out in the sink and bracing herself against the counter. She demanded over her shoulder, hoping he wouldn't hear the quaver in her voice, "Are you ready to go? We don't exactly have all day."

"I've _been _ready," Otto muttered response, "You're the one taking forever." He joined her at the sink, dumping the untouched contents of his bowl down the drain and letting the dish clack loudly against the stainless steel bottom of the sink.

The sun was just beginning to kiss the horizon as the Rocket siblings headed out the door, picking up their boards from the side of the house. Blood red spilled out across the sky, marred by deep orange and grapefruit pink. The beach wasn't entirely empty, a few older surfers, or beach bums as Raymundo would refer to them, were already bobbing along the ocean current. Reggie and Otto dumped their backpacks and other unnecessary belongings on the sand and Otto turned a wide grin to his sister that gave her a warm reminiscent feeling. They hadn't done this in a long time, woken up early together to trek to the ocean shore and catch a few waves.

"Last one to touch water is a lame-o," Otto announced, tearing across the sand and Reggie gave an indignant gasp.

"You little…" she cried, before racing after him.

Of course, Otto reached the water first but Reggie was thankful that by the time she was past the shoreline he was already paddling out to the pipe, ultimately saving her from a bit of his 'good-natured' busting. They made their way to the waves, fine salty mist spraying their faces and the ice cold chill of morning giving way to the burning heat of the rising sun. They took turns with the other surfers riding waves. The cold ocean water berating their skin and little goose bumps lining their arms.

Otto loved the feeling of the ocean roaring at his back, the gulls in the air, and the rush of wind and water alike whipping past his body as he rode the waves. Out there, on his board, he was the master and everyone else a simple peon at his beck and call. They stared in awe of the way his body melded with the waves, becoming one with the sea. Poseidon of Ocean Shores. He could feel the eyes of all the beach bums, people jogging on the sand, his sister, impressed with his display each time his turn was up. Admiring and envying him. He didn't bother watching the others, he and they all knew he was the best. After a final run, he heard Reggie's voice, a shouted whisper to his ears, and turned at her motioning him inland. They had to run to school he realized with a sadness. This was his home. His domain. This was where he belonged.

With a heavy sigh, he paddled in after his sister. She was already patting herself dry and tugging jeans from her backpack on when he finally caught up. He sighed, following suit. A tee-shirt produced from his bag and sneakers that he held daintily with his fingers to be put on when they reached the boardwalk was all he needed.

"School doesn't start for me until almost an hour," Otto grumbled, "I don't see why I have to pull in too."

"Because you'll forget to watch the time," Reggie pointed out, not missing a beat, and he hated that she was right. She pulled a clean shirt on and began wringing out her wet board shorts and tee. They would drop her clothes and their surfboards off at the Shore Shack before heading to class. A benefit of their father owning a business so close to the beach.

Otto started reluctantly towards the boardwalk when his sister's hand caught his elbow. He turned to her questioningly. The sun was in the sky now, though low to the horizon, and it was perfectly positioned behind her, outlining her slender form. His usual sunglasses shielded his eyes from the obtrusive light but her features were shadowed along with whatever emotion was painted across her face. He frowned.

"What?" he growled. Trying to keep the harshness in his tone to a minimum.

"Why the early morning surf session?" Reggie questioned, her tone soft and concerned, "Wanting to cheer me up is a bullshit reason and we both know it. What's wrong, Rocket boy?"

Otto turned his face away, watching the tide wash the sand away, only to put it all back again. A middle-aged woman was a ways down the beach dressed in gray sweats and a large white shirt printed with the words, 'Frankie says Relax'. She had a straw hat on, sandals revealing red painted toe nails, and large tortoise patterned sunglasses covered her eyes. She was sitting under an umbrella on a large beach towel that was wrinkled and curled up on one side. Her face was turned in the direction of two young children, around toddler age, dressed in bathing suits. Floatation devices wrapped about their arms and goggles over their eyes, though they were no where near the water. They were running around the sand, laughing and smiling. A flock of gulls had gathered in the distance around a trash can conveniently placed beneath a sign stating 'Please keep our beach beautiful'. The Pier Amusement park was farther down, looking eerily desolate not lit up and serving patrons.

"It's a nice day," Otto said simply, turning and continuing up to the boardwalk. Reggie sighed, slipping her pack over her shoulders, hefting her surfboard under her arm and trudging after the younger boy.

The Shore Shack wouldn't be open for another few hours but Reggie used her key to unlock the backdoor and they left their belongings in the clean-up area near the dishwasher. They locked up behind themselves and Otto walked with Reggie to her school, deciding he'd try and catch a glimpse of the Sharks finishing up their practice. But he was disappointed to find that the Sharks had either already called it a day or hadn't even had a practice scheduled. Reggie had already left to join up with her friends or probably to meet Sam.

Otto sighed, frowning deeply and making his way round the school. He'd heard from Jamal, who of course had heard from someone else, that Sam had finally gotten up the nerve to ask Reggie to go steady. They were now officially a couple. He wasn't sure how he felt finding out from a third party source. He wondered why neither had told him but he realized, he really wouldn't have cared if they did. They all got along still, hung out at times, but the truth was still painfully obvious. They'd grown apart. Otto imagined Sam telling his nerd squad that he now, officially, had a girlfriend. They would squeal excitedly for him, compliment him even. Reggie would tell her gal pals and they'd squeal excitedly for her, maybe not compliment her, as the sexy Reggie Rocket could definitely catch a bigger fish.

Otto didn't fit into their worlds. Hell, Sam and Reg barely fit into each other's worlds.

So Otto thought of his world. The school year was quickly coming to an end and soon he would be a high school freshman. The idea wasn't as frightful to him as his peers. He was the famous Rocket boy. A shoe-in for the Ocean Shore Sharks. His next four years of schooling were already assured to be awesome. In the crowd of high school students, Otto didn't recognize a lot of faces, but he knew in several months they would all be worshipping the ground he walked on. Otto faltered in his step when a face popped out at him. He tried to recall the name. Steve, it was like a sour taste in the back of his throat. One of Maurice's friends. Otto frowned. Alright, almost everyone would be worshipping the ground he walked on.

Despite what his personality would suggest, Otto didn't hate people easily. But staring out at that blond boy, Steve, Otto sure felt the stirrings of hate. The blond was with others, a few boys and a girl that Otto didn't recognize. Nameless but obviously friends of Steve, which meant they were friends of Maurice. Which meant they were potheads. Drug addicts. Junkies. He wondered what they'd said, how they'd done it, what hook they'd used to drag Twister into their lives, into that world. Twister had never been the brightest of boys. Slow and simple. Naivety bred gullibility.

Hands clenched into fists, Otto started forward. He wasn't sure if he thought he was going to be the knight in shining armor rescuing his best friend or if he just wanted to pound on that blond headed jerk that was so obviously pure evil. The way this Steve had held himself in front of Josh that day of the fight, the way he'd tormented Sam at Madtown. Maybe he was even holding Twister hostage. Maybe if Otto could beat Steve to a bloody pulp it would release Twister, save him even, and then he would crawl back into that empty shell that skulked around calling itself Maurice and everything would return to the way it was. Yes. That sounded right. Otto could feel it now, berating his mind. It all made sense.

A hand grabbed hold of Otto's arm and his lip curled up into a sneer as he was suddenly halted by a boy far stronger than him.

"It's five against one, Rocket boy, and despite what you may think, you really aren't that tough," the accent was thickly Hispanic and very familiar. For a brief moment, in the blur of his anger, Otto thought that it might be Twister. But when the adrenaline faded from his eyes, Lars was standing beside him, a light grip on Otto's elbow and a dour expression across his face.

A silent acknowledgement passed between the two former rivals, an understanding, as their eyes locked. And then Lars released the younger boy. He began a way, walked a short distance to take a seat on a bench and after a few heartbeats, Otto followed him.

"I figure you want revenge," Lars started and Otto caught his breath. Did Lars really know what thoughts had invaded Otto's mind moments before? Lars leaned back in the bench, elbows propped up, looking up unimpressed at the younger man standing in front of him, "Josh really isn't worth it."

Otto released his breath, shaking his head and letting his heart calm to a normal rate. Lars thought Otto wanted to get revenge on the boys who jumped Josh. Admittedly, it sounded a hell of a lot more logical than Otto's delusion that by kicking the unholy crap out of Steve he could somehow save Twister from the clutches of the drug world. The idea was embarrassing, to say the least, and he was grateful Lars, or anyone in the close proximity for that matter, couldn't read minds.

"Don't get me wrong," Lars went on, "What happened to him wasn't right. But it's not your place to make it right. Especially not like that."

Otto frowned, shaking his head and folding his arms over his chest, "Can it even be made right?"

Lars looked away and they were both quiet.

"No," the older boy finally said, then, "I'm sorry about your friend."

"Your brother is the one who owes the apology," Otto seethed, then as a second thought, "Josh isn't really my friend."

At the mention of his brother, Lars's eyes darkened over and his gaze became distant. He pressed his lips together and seemed lost and sad. It was a heartbreaking look and Otto found the floor easier on the eyes.

"Maurice would have to admit he was wrong before he could apologize," Lars muttered.

"And he'd never do that," Otto added bitterly.

"Maybe he's not wrong," Lars mumbled, more to himself than anything. Otto felt uncomfortable suddenly. Emotions and thoughts were toiling away inside of the older boy before him and it seemed almost voyeuristic to watch. They were silent for so very long and Otto begged himself to leave but he couldn't convince his feet to walk. So he hoped and prayed for the bell to ring but, as if out of spite, it never did.

Something had been bothering Otto for awhile. There was something that had been on Otto's mind, something he'd been wanting to ask but had never had the chance. It was a question only Lars could answer and Otto wasn't sure he could ask it. Part of him thought it was better left alone. But he knew he would sleep better at night if he just went ahead with it.

"Why'd you recommend me for the Sharks?"

Lars flickered his focus back on Otto. The question caught him off-guard obviously and a smirk creased his features. He shrugged, letting his eyes trail away again.

"You're a good athlete," was his response, but it wasn't good enough.

"But you don't even like me," Otto pointed out, "There's a lot of good athletes in Ocean Shores, most of whom you've got to like a hell of a lot more than me. Some of which probably even know how to actually play field hockey."

Lars shook his head. He seemed annoyed, but Otto wasn't sure. He could handle it though. Lars didn't scare him. Never had. Lars turned his eyes back to Otto, burning with intensity, and Otto subconsciously took a step backward. Well, maybe he scared Otto a little bit.

"That may be true but you're the best. And I only want the best on my team," Lars explained, "Even if you don't know how to play field hockey, I know you, Rocket. You'll pick it up fast and it won't be long before you're the star of the team. I need that. Whether I like you or not, Rocket, doesn't change the fact you're good at what you do, which is basically rule at any sport you play. And I sure as all hell ain't going to be the first captain in forty years to break the Sharks undefeated record because my personal feelings got in the way of a good team pick."

Otto knew from the heat in his face that his cheeks were a bit red. He wasn't sure how to feel. Lars didn't talk like that about anyone. Especially a Rocket. Of course, Otto hadn't really talked to Lars in a couple years. It was obvious the older boy had changed in that time. He seemed more thoughtful, wiser, mature even.

"Won't it be a problem," Otto wondered, "If we dislike each other. When it comes to the Sharks you either make friends or leave, right?"

Lars leaned forward, folding his hands and bracing his elbows against his knees. His hair fell about his face and while he was obviously paying attention to the conversation, his demeanor suggested he was thinking about something else entirely. Otto had a pretty good hunch what that something was.

"Aren't we getting too old for this?" Lars queried, which took Otto slightly aback, "My family is shattered, my baby brother is fucked beyond repair, and everyone is talking about it behind my back. I don't exactly have the time or energy to dislike you based on some childish desire to be the best surfer, skateboarder, whatever in Ocean Shores. Past the bravado you're an alright kid. If you want to keep hating me because of some immature grudge, be my guest," Lars bore his eyes into Otto's, "But for the sake of the team, I really wish you wouldn't."

The bell chose that moment to ring and Lars stood without another word, nodded a 'good-bye' Otto's way and trekked up towards the school to his class. Otto stood where he was, people pushing passed him and the surrounding outside area of the school quickly emptied of life. Otto was unable to move. He wasn't even sure if he was breathing. He almost pinched himself, uncertain if that conversation had really taken place. Lars thought Otto was the best athlete in Ocean Shores? And wanted to, not only be teammates, but friends?

The idea was surreal.

But not unreasonable.

* * *

END A/N: I really disliked this chapter. Rather vehemently, actaully. I think that's what happens when you don't write for a story for so long you kind of lose that energy, the emotions of the story and characters. I've been rereading this whole story, trying to recapture my mindset, but all I can do is stare blankly at the screen and think 'I really wrote this'. I actually had this chapter planned out since last time I updated (last year, I think...ahem...) but I only just wrote it out over the past week.

Anyways, at least we got to see Reggie's point of view about the whole 'kiss' thing. Oh, and Otto and Lars had a little discussion, which is actually what this whole chapter was suppossed to be about. I love Lars by the way. I should write more stories about him.

I should finish the stories I write.

The whole moment where Otto wants to beat up Steve and reasoning for why is actually really ironic and I'm not sure if any of you remember why. But later chapters will further reveal the irony in a lot of Otto's emotions and feelings.

Moving on, next chapter should be easier for me to write as it'll have a lot of Twister's point of view. Yay, Twister! He's so easy for me to write and I don't know why that is. Maybe because we're both so simple minded?

Please excuse any grammatical or typing errors.

Please _**REVIEW**_!

Thank you, Thank You, THANK YOU for being patient with me. And as always, thank you for reading!

'Till next time, Peace!


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